Green Meadows
by Bicoastal
Summary: an unfinished AU for CSI: in 1871, Green Meadows welcomes a new resident.
1. Chapter 1

_This was our concept: To put the cast of CSI back into the Old West. Specifically, to Las Vegas before it *was* Las Vegas. VR and I thought that it would be fun and a good challenge to see if we could get our favorite geeks into a setting where their natural characteristics would be showcased, but would be just different enough to be fun._

_This was all set along the time of Season Five, when Mia Dickerson was in the DNA lab, so neither Wendy nor Mandy appear in this story, although Hodges does. _

_This is the start of what VR and I came up with; right now the story looks to run for about eleven chapters, and at the end of posting those, we will give a rough outline of what we had intended to happen. Thank you for wanting to read Green Meadows even if it's not finished—I feel sad about that, but at the same time, there is a lot of good storytelling here that I'm glad we'll get to share with you the readers and fans of CSI._

_On with the story!_

Green Meadows

Chapter one

Spring, 1870

The town of Green Meadows, Nevada, was a bit of a misnomer all around. In fact it was really more of a village if the homesteaders and founders had been honest; a small settlement a few miles from the railroad line with the saloon at one end and the Methodist church at the other to set the scale of balance to the place. It was not green—at least not often enough to warrant the name-but nobody wanted to call it Dusty Meadows, or Dry Meadows, or in plain-faced honesty, Scrubby Desert. Everyone clung to the optimistic tone of the name Green Meadows in hopes of better things to come.

Not much came to Green Meadows though. Mostly it was a passing point for travelers going west, a stopover with more entertainment and better beds than most. The Willow Branch Saloon run by Miss Catherine boasted six rooms upstairs, four of which were free for sleeping most of the time. It was at the west end of the main street, and had more than enough customers to keep Sheriff Jim Brass busy. Not that Miss Catherine couldn't handle most of the local johnnies on her own just fine, but Brass was wise enough to the ways of Green Meadows to know when to step in, and when to step back.

The sheriff had his office midway up the main street, between Brown's livery and the Mayor's bank. His view of the street helped him keep order in Green Meadows, and most folks respected his laid-back way of handling things. Across the main road from the sheriff's office stood Hodges' Fine Goods and Sundries Emporium, a two-story enterprise consisting of hundreds of items laid out along maze-like aisles both upstairs and down. Next to Hodges' stood Doc Robbins' office, with the funeral parlor in the back. And keeping an eye on the citizens from the eastern end of the main street stood the First Methodist Church under the benign watch of Reverend David Phillips.

Beyond the main street lay the outer structures, and beyond them in various directions the farms and homesteads and ranches of the citizens of Green Meadows. There were town dwellers and home dwellers; a few, like Doc Robbins and Mayor Ecklie came to town to conduct their affairs, but by and large most folk only made it to Green Meadow proper for Sunday services and mail day.

The last person to come to Green Meadows and stay on as a resident had been young Sanders. He'd arrived two years back; dusty, haunted, with one shabby satchel to his name and so thin that Miz Willows claimed he didn't even cast a shadow. The saloon owner had taken pity on him, and hired him on a trial basis—young Gregory quickly found his niche tending bar at the Willow Branch, sharing conversation and medium-grade liquor with any number of locals and transients passing through. Most of the patrons took a shine to him; he gave fair measure to the drinks, rarely took sides in arguments and always had a grin for whoever tipped well.

Most people tipped him well—the Willow Branch was a sociable haven, and even the mayor was seen coming in for a quick hand of poker on Friday nights. He and Doc Robbins usually made short work of unwary visitors at the tables, but not in a malicious way. Both of them had been around since Green Meadows' earliest days, and both shared a professional if somewhat mutually stodgy respect. Ecklie had given Doc enough of a loan to build his offices, and in return Doc had nursed Becky Ecklie through an uneasy pregnancy that resulted in the twins, Jonathon and Josiah. Both were nearly ten now, and blessed with their mother's straw blonde hair and freckles.

On any given day after school, the twins could be found hanging around Brown's Livery, running errands and doing whatever odd chores Warrick Brown chose to mete out. Jonathon was the more outspoken and livelier of the two, but it was Josiah who had a gifted touch with horses. A shy boy by nature, Josiah instinctively knew how to handle all of the livery stable from Mr. Hodge's matched black quarter horses Belle and Beau to the day rides and hires, to Miz Jacquie's ornery burro Pete.

Both Jonathon and Josiah ran errands for anybody with a spare nickel and a message to send; thus when Reverend Phillip's hen stopped laying he was able to buy a new broody from Miz Catherine's run out behind the Willow Branch by the same afternoon. Josiah came out of it five cents richer and the Reverend was able to send the recalcitrant layer to the Ecklie's housekeeper Miss Judy. Within hours she'd become a warm and tasty lunch for the reverend—the hen that is, not the housekeeper.

Although given some of the shy looks that passed between Miss Judy and Pastor David, the possibility wasn't out of reach.

It was late in the spring of 1871 when Miss Sara Sidle came to Green Meadows. She arrived by train at around a little after ten in the morning of a glorious day, and despite the long trip, she felt enough relief to be at the end of her journey to look on the small town with a kindly eye. She stepped down into the mostly empty platform and checked about for the stationmaster. He was a large man with pale blonde hair and smoked lens spectacles, overseeing the unloading of crates at the far end.

"Ma'am. Welcome to Green Meadows. Are you waiting to meet someone?" he asked courteously while the engineer carried her luggage down from the freight car. Sara looked around and sighed.

"Not really. I have a note of introduction for Mr. Ecklie, but he wasn't expecting me for another month." She smoothed the front of her grey polonaise traveling dress, wishing it wasn't so wrinkled, but that couldn't be helped. The stationmaster nodded.

"Ah. Well he's in probably at the bank at this hour of the morning, Miss. I can have Archie run you over there if you like." He hesitated and added, "And you didn't hear it from me, but if you need a place to stay, word is that Mr. Hodges is looking to rent a room or two above his Emporium. Cheaper than the Willow Branch, and a bit more fitting for a lady like yourself." The stationmaster shyly trailed off.

Sara looked at him and smiled; she'd found on this trip that most of the men working for the railroads were honest, hard-working and straightforward. "Ah, thank you Mr-?"

"Ronald Harper, Ma'am. Most folks in Green Meadows just call me Ronnie."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sara Sidle lately of the St. Louis Post Dispatch." She gave a polite bob. Ronnie brightened.

"A writer! Oh won't that be grand! Are you here to do a story about Green Meadows? Something for the folks back East?"

"I'm here for my health. Lungs mostly," she admitted with a wince. It still galled her to admit the truth, even though Franklin was right.

Already the warm prairie air was much easier to breathe and the tightness in her chest had faded a little. She made a mental note to add that in a postscript on her first letter.

Ronnie gave a nod. "Taking the cure. Well you've come to a good place for it. We've got dry air a plenty, along with tumbleweeds, jackrabbits, cactus and sky."

He helped load her bags into the wagon headed into town and watched for a moment as it rolled along the dusty road to town, then turned back to the station, wondering what Green Meadows would make of Miss Sara Sidle.

The boy was watching her from the loft of the livery; Sara spotted him up there, hanging on the tackle of the pulley, swinging like a monkey. The minute he saw her though, he scrambled back to the loft door and got his footing, keeping his eye on her. She looked up at him. Impulsively, Sara reached into her handbag and pulled out a dime, tossing it high to him. The boy reached out and caught it, barely, then grinned in delight at her.

"I need an errand. Think you can do it?"

"Yes Ma'am!" he chortled, swinging out onto the dangling rope of the tackle and sliding down it. Sara noted he was far too good at it not to have done it before. From out of the livery door came a tall dark man, looking exasperated.

"Josiah Ecklie, I've warned you and your brother about swinging on my block and tackle," the man commented, but in a resigned tone. The boy hung his head a moment, then nodded at Sara.

"Sorry Warrick—the lady there needed me. For an errand."

Sara looked into unexpectedly green eyes, and the fierce intelligence warmed her for a moment. This was a proud man, and nobody's fool. She cleared her throat and spoke up, "Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. I was wondering if you had a shay or phaeton for hire?"

He stared at her a moment. A small smile crossed his mouth as he dropped his hands to his hips.

"Ma'am, in all my years here, I've never had a request for a shay, to be honest. Most of my hire is for hauling and travel—the only show set of horses I stable belongs to Mr. Hodges and even HE doesn't take them out nearly often enough. I DO have a buckboard and a big roan I can set you up with if you've got anything to haul."

Sara considered his offer, and in the pause, the boy moved closer to her, still patiently waiting for his errand. She gave a nod. "All right then. I'd like to hire them for tomorrow afternoon, after noon or so. What's the temperament of the roan?"

"Willie's a good draft," Warrick replied, impressed the woman would ask. Clearly, she knew something about horseflesh and from the confident look in her eyes he suspected she'd know exactly how to handle whatever hitch he gave her.

"Willie's the best. I like him almost as much as Pete." The boy, Josiah, broke in. Sara nodded, taking his words seriously; she undid the drawstring of her purse once more.

"Fair enough. Let me put down a deposit on the wagon, then. Josiah, I need you to take a note to Mr. Hodges for me while I stop in at the bank. Can you do that?"

"Sure. You already paid me!" the boy pointed out. Warrick blinked, amused at the speed with which the woman worked. He shook his head slowly.

"Not one to let grass grow under your feet I see. A deposit isn't necessary, Mrs.-?"

"-Miss. Miss Sara Sidle. And I appreciate your faith in me, but your receipt will help me show Mr. Hodges that I intend to take up residence in Green Meadows, so you would be doing ME a considerable favor by allowing me to collect one," she pointed out in her husky tones.

Warrick arched an eyebrow. "You sound as if you've met Mr. Hodges before."

"No, but I know shopkeepers," she admitted, and he could hear a little exasperation in her voice. That made his own smile widen and in that single moment Warrick Brown decided he liked Miss Sara Sidle. With a lift of his chin, he motioned for her to follow him to the livery office.

"Sounds like you surely do. Step right this way and I'd be happy to write you a receipt, Miss Sidle. Delighted to."

As soon as she stepped inside the Emporium, Sara knew that Josiah had done his work well. Heads turned as she entered-she'd expected that, in a town this small any new face had to stand out-but the graying man with the sleeve garters and the pencil behind his ear was the only one who didn't look surprised. He straightened from where he was leaning against the counter. "Welcome to Green Meadows. Miss Sara Sidle, I presume?"

She nodded politely as she advanced into the big room and set down her bags. "I am. And you're Mr. Hodges?"

He nodded back in a businesslike fashion, giving her a look down his nose that made him seem slightly supercilious. "Yes indeed. These are the Arkin brothers." He waved a hand at the two elderly, white-bearded men who flanked the counter, and they both hastily pulled off dusty hats and gave her shy smiles. "They're hoping to find gold in the hills to the north-a fool's hope, I keep telling them."

His statement was casual, and the two grizzled miners seemed to take no offense at it. Sara nodded to them as well. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

The Emporium took up easily half the ground floor of its building, Sara judged, and smelled of leather and wood and cloth; it held a bewildering array of items, from saddles to ploughs to ladies' hats, with bolts of fabric and anonymous barrels in between. But for the moment she focused on its owner. "I understand from young Josiah that you're looking to rent a room," he said.

At his words the two miners clapped their hats back on and slid past Sara and out the front door, mumbling apologetically as they went. Mr. Hodges didn't seem to notice and after a moment's confusion, Sara decided to not comment. "Yes, I am."

The man seemed to tense a bit, though she could see a mercenary gleam in his eyes. "Well, I must mention that I'm looking for tenants a little more refined than those who room at the Willow Branch. Long-term tenants."

Sara didn't permit her amusement to reach her face. _Shopkeepers!_ With a smooth motion, she pulled the livery receipt from her handbag and held it out. "A bona fide. I'm here for my health, Mr. Hodges; I intend to stay quite some time."

He took the paper and scanned it quickly, then looked up again, and Sara could see him calculating the cost of her dress and her hat, judging the way she stood. It didn't offend her. . . much. She was, after all, a stranger. They were both going on a certain amount of faith.

"I can pay the first week's rent in advance," she added, and watched his brows go up.

"That would be most satisfactory, Miss Sidle," he said, and looked her up and down once more. "Very well. Come into the back, and I...I'll make you out a receipt."

He picked up her larger case, but as soon as he turned, Sara frowned. The shopkeeper was still tense, and she didn't know why, though there was no aura of threat about him. She followed him past the long counter and through a split door, the top half open, to find herself in a big kitchen where an elegant dark-skinned woman stood at the stove, looking up coolly as they entered. Sara assumed she was the cook, until Mr. Hodges turned to look at her, his face even more supercilious. "This is my wife, Mrs. Mia Hodges."

Sara blinked. Seeing a black man in charge of the livery stable had surprised her only slightly; attitudes were easier in the West. But this was definitely out of the ordinary.

And, she realized, it explained Mr. Hodges' tension. There were many women, Sara knew, who would turn on their heels and stride out, offended at the mere idea of a white man marrying a black woman. However, she knew the clattering vivid mix of cultures that was St. Louis' streets, and she wasn't one of those women.

Extending a hand, she stepped forward. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hodges. I'm Miss Sidle."

The shopkeeper's shoulders relaxed. Mrs. Hodges gave her a long look, then gravely reached out and shook hands, her grip firm. "Welcome to Green Meadows."

Mr. Hodges was almost effusive as he accepted Sara's money and wrote out her receipt in careful angular script. His wife returned to her cooking, not sparing them a glance, but before Sara could wonder too much the shopkeeper bustled her up the stairs, chattering on about the "amenities" as though the place were a four-star hotel. He swung the door open for her and put her case just inside.

"Well, I'll leave you to get settled," he said, almost unctuous. "If you need anything . . ."

He clearly didn't expect an answer, but Sara swung around all the same. "Yes, actually, there is one thing, Mr. Hodges. I do not eat meat." Breakfast and supper were included in their agreement, though for the noon dinner she would have to fend for herself.

He looked taken aback, his chin going up in surprise. "No. . . meat?"

Sara looked down, not willing to explain why. "Fish, but not red meat. Nothing . . . warm-blooded." She suppressed a shudder.

"Uh . . . very well." Mr. Hodges gave an awkward little bow. "I'll . . . I hope you'll be comfortable here." He backed out and closed the door with alacrity.

Finally alone, for the first time in days, Sara set down her bag with a sigh and looked around. _Well . . . it's not bad._

Not bad at all, she realized, as she took in the details. The room was not large, but it was still bigger than her boarding house space back home; the window's curtains were limp, but the view was of endless plains extending out to a limitless horizon, not the bricks of the next building over. The rug on the wooden floor was worn, and a faint film of the ever-present dust lay over everything, but . . .

_But it's quiet_. That in itself was a tremendous relief. Certainly she could hear the muffled voices of people below, or the rumble of a cart passing on the street, but there was no endless racket of people, vehicles, voices.

And the air smelled clean. Sara unpinned her hat and set it on the small battered chest of drawers, smiling faintly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror. It didn't reek of stale moisture, or too many people packed into a building, or even of garbage and horse manure. Her chest felt better now than it had all year.

Sara sat down tentatively on the wood-framed bed. It crackled, startling her, and she rose again to pull back the coverlet and sheets.

_Well. It must be a straw tick. I've never seen one before-_ She pressed a hand on the thick cloth, and a sweet scent rose up to her nose, sun and dried grass. Bemused, she put the bedclothes back in order and sat down again, suddenly very tired.

It was one thing, after all, to agree to travel out West to write about life in Nevada Territory; it was quite another to actually do it, to endure days of travel on filthy trains and endless waits in seedy depots. It had been far too long since her last bath, and almost as long since she'd had a proper meal.

A light tap sounded at the door, and Sara looked up. "Come in."

It was Mrs. Hodges, carrying a large kettle. She gave Sara a smile, a little less reserved than before, and still elegant. "I've brought you some hot water, Miss Sidle. We usually eat at eight, so if you want to rest before supper . . ."

"Oh, that would be lovely." Sara rose as Mrs. Hodges poured still-steaming water into the bowl on the washstand and set the kettle next to it, leaving the potholder on the handle. "Um…did Mr. Hodges tell you about my diet?"

Mrs. Hodges gave her a slightly dubious glance. "He said you won't eat meat, except for fish."

Sara let out a breath. "Yes, unfortunately eating meat makes me ill."

The tall woman shrugged. "As long as you don't mind if we're eating it, that's fine. We've a flock of good layers and there's fresh fish in the warmer months."

"That's fine-it won't bother me." She felt a wave of relief. In truth, the scent of meat cooking did nauseate her slightly, but it was something she'd learned to live with.

Mrs. Hodges nodded. "I'll leave you to rest, then." With that, she swept back out the door, closing it behind her.

Sara was almost tired enough to simply stretch out and sleep as she was, but the thought of getting out of her grimy garments was too tempting. She rose and pulled the curtains to, only to find that they did not quite overlap.

Sara eyed them dubiously. True, she was on the second floor and at the moment there was nothing bigger than a bird in view outside the window, but that didn't mean that someone wouldn't pass by. Finally, she took her hatpin and pinned the edges together, making the room a little dimmer. That'll do.

Off came her gloves, her polonaise, her petticoats, and finally her corset; Sara breathed out in relief. Being naturally slender was both a boon and a fault-she hadn't had to lace her corset so tightly as plumper women, but no matter how tightly she wore it she had few of the coveted curves. With her condition, she had an excuse to wear it a bit looser, but even so, it was easing to get it off.

She unbuttoned her boots and finally emerged from stockings, drawers, and chemise, hanging up her dress in the little wardrobe but draping the rest over the rickety chair to deal with later. Adding a little cold water to the bowl, Sara sponged off days of dirt in a sort of catlike ecstasy.

A clean chemise pulled from her bag was crumpled and a bit musty, but Sara didn't care. She slipped it on, unpinned the coils of her hair without bothering to comb them out, and lay down.

The sheets smelled of fresh air. The straw tick crackled underneath her, which was distracting, but Sara was too tired to move much. Within a few moments, she was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The knock on the door and Mrs. Hodges' voice calling politely through it brought Sara up out of one of the nastier dreams, all red-orange and roaring. For a moment, her throat seared with the memory of smoke, but then she swallowed and realized that the crackling was not flames but straw.

"I'm awake, thank you," she managed, blinking; the room was dim with twilight.

"Shall I leave you to rest?" Mrs. Hodges asked. "Or would you like to come down for supper?"

Part of her wanted nothing more than sleep, but Sara knew that the nightmare wouldn't permit it for a while, and besides, her doctor had ordered her sternly to eat more.

"I'll be down," she assured her hostess, pushing up into a sitting position.

"Very well. There's a lamp in the hall," Mrs. Hodges said, and Sara heard her steps moving away down the corridor.

Stretching out cramped muscles as the dream faded, Sara swung her legs out of bed and rose carefully, still stiff with days of travel. A rhythmic creak told her that Mrs. Hodges was descending the stairs, so she opened her door cautiously. As promised, a lamp was burning on the small hall table; Sara took it back into her room and used it to light the candles provided. With enough light, she dressed herself in fresh stockings and her discarded dress, shivering a little in the cool air, and pinned her hair back up, smoothing it into place. Then she blew out the candles, took up the lamp, and went downstairs.

The hallway was the same comfortable shabbiness of her room; the stairs were narrow but seemed secure. Sara passed by the darkened space of the small parlor and entered the kitchen, which was the largest room on the ground floor after the expanse of the Emporium. Mr. Hodges was already seated at the table, and his wife was setting a covered serving bowl in the center of the table.

Mrs. Hodges nodded to the empty place to the shopkeeper's left, and Sara sat. The table was unfinished wood, but the napkins were starched linen and the plates of undented tin. The room smelled of good cooking-fresh bread and a spicy smell, warm and inviting.

The odor was revealed to be beans, but not quite like Sara had ever tasted before; the seasonings were unfamiliar, heating her mouth more than she expected, but the tea served with the meal helped soothe the sting. Sara found herself enjoying the food more than the company. Mrs. Hodges was taciturn, saying little, while her husband gave a monologue on Green Meadows, its surroundings, its inhabitants, and its weather-little of it complimentary.

But he seemed pompous more than malicious, and his wife was probably naturally withdrawn-Sara noticed that she wasn't shy about correcting him on occasion. Finally she cut into his words, asking Sara brusquely how long she had been traveling.

Mr. Hodges subsided without apparent rancor as Sara smiled politely at her hostess. "Far too long, it seems," she admitted. "It's possible to travel in relative comfort from St. Louis, but only if one wants to pay a fortune for the privilege. I'm glad of a chance to rest."

Sara spread butter on another slice of the bread-both were superior-and decided she'd had enough beans. "Green Meadows seems a cozy place," she added. "I've seen the livery stables and the bank, though Mr. Ecklie was out when I arrived. I'll have to go back tomorrow."

Hodges' expression soured slightly at the mention of the mayor, but his wife laid a hand on his and regarded Sara calmly. "There are good people here," she said with the air of someone who had encountered those who weren't. "Plenty of warm hearts."

Sara absorbed her words carefully. Already the attitudes displayed in Green Meadows were far more open than in busy St. Louis, and she suspected it wasn't just due to curiosity about the newcomer. "I look forward to meeting them."

"Well, this is certainly . . . unexpected," Conrad Ecklie muttered, looking from the well-creased letter to the young woman sitting across his desk. She gave a shrug, not bothered in the least by his discomfiture, her gap-toothed smile confident.

"Franklin and I thought it might be best to come early and get settled in before the heat became too much. I've arranged for my goods to be shipped in the next week or so. In the meantime, I'm fairly sure I can manage."

"Do you have accommodations? A place to stay? Relatives perhaps?"

"I don't know a soul here, yet. I'll be boarding over the Emporium as Mr. Hodge's lodger for the time being. And I need to deposit this—" she opened her handbag, pulling out an ornately inscribed bank draft. When Ecklie saw the amount his eyes widened, and he sat up a bit straighter.

"Well, welcome to Green Meadows Miss Sidle. I'm sure we can accommodate you handsomely then."

"Thank you Mr. Ecklie," Sara replied, amused to see how the money had made an impression on him. She couldn't blame the man somehow; the sum WAS impressive; more than enough to live on comfortably for a few years. Not that she planned to stay in Green Meadows that long, no. But for the time being, it would do. She smiled again at the banker.

"I believe I met your son earlier yesterday. Josiah?"

Instantly Ecklie's face flashed a combination of exasperation and grudging amusement. "One of the two-Let me guess—over at the livery?"

"Yes. He seemed to know it very well."

"TOO well," Ecklie replied impatiently. "If it wasn't for the fact that Warrick Brown manages to keep both boys out of mischief I'd forbid them from being there at all."

"It's difficult to keep boys from trouble," Sara commiserated gently, and Ecklie shot her a wry smile; she sensed his paternal affection and it touched her to think that under his stiff collar and fussy manners, Conrad Ecklie was capable of loving his children.

Sara rose and extended her hand to him, smiling. "Well in any case, they do you credit for manners. Josiah was very polite and helpful."

"Thank you, but credit goes to his mother—" Ecklie admitted, but managed a small smile, shaking Sara's gloved hand gently.

She stepped out of the bank and looked along the dusty main street of the town, glancing left and right, wondering where to go next. It was nearly noon, and her stomach growled a bit. In her handbag she had nearly fifteen dollars, so cost wasn't a factor, but content was. Sara sighed.

Leaving the East meant much more than just leaving the tenements and noise and congested air and dirty chill. It also meant leaving some of the good things as well: the reading rooms of the Public library; the band concerts in the park, and the amazing variety of meals. Sara closed her eyes, remembering bowls of steaming chickpea soup from the vendor out in front of the Post Dispatch, the taste of hot crispy waffles from Franklin's cook Mahalia, the joy of a warm cheese blintz on the Goldsteins' table; fresh blueberries off the farmer carts that made their way to market—

"Excuse me, miss, but are you all right?" came a soft question, breaking into her reverie. Sara opened her eyes to see a short compactly muscled man in a dark frock coat and plaid vest studying her carefully as he locked up the door of the shop next to the bank. He had dark blue eyes, and a patient, no nonsense look even as he smiled at her.

"I'm sorry, I was . . . contemplating dinner. I'm new to town and haven't any idea where to go," she admitted softly. The man gave a thoughtful nod and tipped his hat to her.

"Ah. Well, allow me to make an introduction. My name is James Brass, and I'm the sheriff of Green Meadows."

"Miss Sara Sidle, lately of St. Louis. Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Miss—" he gave a dip of his head and his eyes twinkled at her. "Well, there are three places for a dinner here in Green Meadows. Hodges' Emporium sells a soup and bread lunch out at the train station, but only on the days when a train is stopping. If you catch them before the cart leaves you can get a bowl and a loaf for a nickel. There's the table at Mrs. Pearson's boarding house; you don't have to live there to stop in for dinner or supper, and it's not bad—about fifteen cents for whatever's on the menu. And last of all, there's the Willow Branch saloon. The food there is good, but not too many ladies venture inside."

During all of this, Sara's smile had been broadening, and by the time the sheriff was done she was grinning completely. She cocked her head. "And where do YOU take dinner, Sheriff Brass?"

He considered her question and sighed. "The Willow Branch—I find a personal stopover once or twice a week on my part tends to remind customers to mind their manners. And Miz Catherine's cook Jacquie is fair amazing."

"Sounds promising," Sara decided, and Sheriff Brass's smile deepened. He tipped his hat again.

"Miss Sidle, forward as it might be, I'd be honored to have lunch with you if you'll permit it."

"Sheriff Brass, I'd be delighted."

Sheriff Brass didn't offer Sara his arm but she thought he might like to. He escorted her across the dusty street and down a bit to the saloon, chatting gently about Green Meadows and its charms and not asking questions, which she appreciated after Mayor Ecklie's inquisitiveness. She had to wonder what had brought the sheriff to Green Meadows, as he was far older than the town and obviously educated by the pattern of his speech, but she didn't yet ask, merely marking him as a possible subject for an article. He held the door of the saloon for her, and she stepped inside.

The interior was dimmer than the brilliant sunshine, and somewhat cooler; Sara looked around, blinking. There were quite a few tables, some occupied by diners, and a large half-moon bar of polished dark wood that looked as though it would be at home in one of St. Louis' finer hotels. A sweeping staircase led up to the second floor, and a piano sat in one corner.

"Excuse me." A tall young man, rather scruffy-looking, slipped past her with a bob of his head, vanishing back through swinging doors into what was presumably the kitchen. Sheriff Brass stepped up beside Sara and inhaled deeply.

"Ahh, smells like fish stew today. Come, let's find a seat-Miz Catherine does not permit dining at the bar." The small grin on his face was reassuring, and Sara let him lead her further into the saloon.

It was cleaner than she had expected, somehow; the tables and chairs were sturdy and a little battered, and the floor covered with a layer of sawdust, but it was fresh sawdust and the tables were scrubbed. The sheriff chose a smaller table near the piano, passing the other diners with cordial nods and holding out Sara's chair with careful courtesy. She seated herself and thanked him with a nod of her own, aware that she was attracting covert stares from the customers. All of them were male.

She didn't let it bother her. The stares weren't hostile, and if being the only female in a room full of men had disturbed her, she would never have gotten the story on the factory strike two years prior, nor managed an interview with a riverboat crew. No, it was merely natural curiosity at a stranger, and a lady at that; far fewer women came West than men.

No one came to take their order, per se, but within a few moments a plump, aproned woman, wearing a scowl that spoke more of concentration than irritation, came out with a tray and placed two large bowls of steaming stew in front of them. These were followed by spoons-clean ones, Sara noted gratefully-napkins, and large mugs. Without a word, the woman turned and vanished back through the swinging doors.

"Jacquie's not much for conversation," the Sheriff said apologetically, shaking out his napkin and tucking it into his collar. "But she's a good woman and possibly the finest cook in town."

Sara, who had in her time eaten in the best restaurants that St. Louis had to offer as well as ventured into tiny holes whose food didn't bear thinking about, simply smiled and picked up her spoon. The stew was thick and rich, with slices of carrots and islands of dumplings. Its fragrance made her stomach rumble. She took a taste of the gravy, and her brows rose in appreciation. "I see why you favor the Willow Branch, Sheriff."

Brass smirked at her around a mouthful of stew, then cleared his mouth hastily. "I wouldn't advise coming in here for supper, Miss Sidle, unless you're prepared for a rougher atmosphere. Evenings are when the drinkers come out."

Sara gave him a demure smile. She might come back at a later date, should a story compel her, but experience had taught her that there was no reason to alarm the law. Generally doing so meant spending valuable time trying to talk them out of worry. "I'm not much of a drinker."

That made him laugh, and Sara sipped from her mug. Only water met her lips, but it was cold and fresh and had the faint earthy flavor of a good deep well. She drank deeply, then enjoyed her stew and let the Sheriff tell her all about the town.

Professor Gil Grissom, late of Northwestern University, looked over the wood and iron weather vane with a hint of satisfaction, inspecting it from all angles as he walked around the workbench. The mid-day sun shown down through the open storm doors into the cellar, providing a bright shaft of daylight in the otherwise gloomy stone room. Grissom made one circuit of the workbench, and thoughtfully scratched his chin, leaving a dab of grease there as he thought hard. Anyone looking at him would have assumed he was a farmer, or engineer, standing as he was in his vest with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his frockcoat tossed carelessly over a chair in the corner. He hummed to himself, and spoke into the quiet of the storm cellar.

"Copper for conductivity, oak for stability and weight—it will need a grounding wire of course, and oak pins to anchor it . . ."

He looked at the hammered metal emblem and fought unsuccessfully not to grin at his chosen design. Yes he would get comments about it, and some of them wouldn't be polite, but Grissom had decided long ago that whatever Green Meadows thought of him didn't matter. He was content here, and under no one's imposition. His last three years had been the best of his life, and despite the loss of a few civilized amenities, Nevada suited him far better than Chicago ever did.

Grissom carefully pushed the weather vane onto the platform and reached for the tethered rope. The pulleys creaked a little, and slowly, he managed to bring the mechanism up out of the storm doors. He hit the locking pin and climbed the stairs, moving out into the fresh air, blinking a little. A wind was blowing over the scrub, and he heard the mournful lowing of Bessie coming from the barn. Grissom yelled to her.

"I'll let you out in a minute, min elskede, just be patient!"

At the sound of his voice, Bessie mooed again, and Grissom sighed. She was a nice cow, and even though she only understood Danish, was quite accommodating in the milk department. Unfortunately, she was also quite bossy about maintaining a schedule for the process. Grissom looked at the weather vane hanging over the open storm doors and calculated he could shift the crane arm to lower it onto the ground before Bessie got truly fussy. Carefully, he turned the big gear crank and swiveled the wooden crane. The platform holding the weather vane swung slowly and Grissom lowered it to the ground at his feet. Perfect.

Bessie lowed again, this time with a no-nonsense sound that made Grissom grin. He moved to the pump and carefully washed his hands clean of grease, using the lump of lye soap in the tin bucket nailed to the post by the pump. Once his hands were clean, he walked to the barn.

"Goddag, Bessie. Færdig?"

Bessie was indeed ready and walked outside, moving around the milking stool with queenly grace. Grissom picked up the tin bucket and followed her, then settled himself on the stool and gently patted her rounded brown side, murmuring softly. "Sød, Sød Ko—"

He milked her. Grissom was actually good at it; big hands moving efficiently and firmly, fingers rolling down the heavy udders with the ease of long practice, and Bessie placidly chewed her cud as he did so. The frothy milk splashed into the pail, filling it by a half before Grissom finally stopped, gently stripping the last creamy drops from Bessie and giving her a light rub along her flank.

"Tak, Bessie. This will get us a slab of butter from Mrs. Ecklie and another three pounds of flour from Hodges. And with THAT, I might be able to talk Mrs. Pearson into a batch of biscuits and a few loaves."

Bessie was uninterested in the economics of her bounty, and slowly ambled across the little paddock towards some tasty dandelions. Grissom sighed. Zeus, his hackney, was already out grazing and flicking flies with his long ebony tail. Grissom turned from the yard and carefully carried the bucket to the storm cellar, setting it along the coolest side of the stone walls, covering it with cheesecloth.

He heard approaching hoof beats. Curious, he checked his pocket watch, wondering who could be coming out to see him shortly after dinner. Grissom climbed the cellar steps and looked out towards the town, shielding his eyes from the bright sun as he gazed out. Coming into view was a familiar buckboard; Grissom would have recognized it even without '_Brown's Livery, est. 1866'_ stenciled on the side. Big Willie was in the harness, trotting along, clearly enjoying the light load and sunshine.

Grissom looked at the driver, and a sudden quick pang thrummed through his chest as he took note of everything all at once in a quick joyous image, caught like a daguerreotype in his mind's camera. The slender young woman with her laughing grin, holding the reins with confidence, loose strands of her glossy dark hair blowing free of her chignon; her straw hat ribbons fluttering behind her in the breeze; her red skirts ruffling up to afford him a quick, thrilling glance of her snowy stocking-covered shins and black high-button boots as the wagon lumbered up. She gave a tiny tug on the reins and instantly Willie slowed, coming to a stop a little past Grissom and jingling his harness.

"Whoa, big fellah . . . . Excuse me sir, but I'm trying to get back to Green Meadows and was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?" The woman asked in a low, husky voice. Grissom reached out and patted Willie's damp flank before he spoke.

"Green Meadows is about two miles east of here, along Prosperity Road. This time of year the tracks grow over a bit, but Willie here knows the way." This last was murmured to the horse in a slightly disapproving tone. Willie tossed his head, and the woman laughed.

"Yes, I figured he would, but that on a fine day like today he'd go the long route. So I need to turn around and head east?"

"Turn around and go down the lane, then head east, although . . ." Grissom hesitated. The young woman looked at him, and then at the horse.

" . . . Although letting Willie get some water in would probably be wise in this heat," she finished for him. "Excellent point. Do you have a creek or a trough?"

"The trough is on the other side of the barn; Willie definitely knows the way there," Grissom admitted cheerfully. He looked up at the woman again and cleared his throat. "Allow me to make my own introduction. I'm Professor Gil Grissom, lately of Chicago and now Green Meadows."

The young woman pinkened, and quickly extended one gloved hand to him, her fingers resting on his for a lingering moment. "Pleased and grateful to meet you. My name is Miss Sara Sidle, and I'm relatively new to town."

"Very good to meet you," Grissom told her forthrightly. He looped a few fingers into Willie's bridle and guided the big horse forward. "So, while we get him watered up, may I offer you some refreshment as well? I've got fresh milk."

"Milk?" the woman asked weakly, and Grissom noted how big and soft her eyes were; a rich shade of sweet loamy brown.

He nodded shyly. "I think I can say without exaggeration that Bessie's reputation is known far and wide, and a glass of her finest is a panacea for almost everything—including thirst."

That made Sara grin. "How can I pass up such an offer? Milk sounds lovely, Professor Grissom."

He reached up a hand again, and she took it, lightly hopping down from the buckboard and smoothing her skirts. Grissom slowly led Willie to the far side of the barn, Sara keeping pace with him. He was aware of her lithe grace, and her height. Carefully Grissom unhooked the bit out of Willie's bridle and let go of the big animal's head; the horse dropped his muzzle into the trough and drank. Sara patted his long muscled neck gently as Grissom unhitched him and turned Willie out into the paddock.

"Josiah Ecklie was right—Willie is the best. He actually wanted to trot the entire way out to the Braun farmhouse and back."

"Willie doesn't often get to do light trips so I think he's making the most of it. Visiting the Brauns?" Grissom asked, motioning with his head toward the house. He liked the sound of her voice, and took a moment to study Miss Sara Sidle now that she was up close.


	3. Chapter 3

Her dress was a sort of cranberry color, with big dark buttons down the front, and the band around her straw hat matched it. Grissom thought that while she looked pale, it was merely a sign of city life rather than illness; that is, until she mounted the steps to the house and he heard the faintest of wheezes coming from her. Concerned, he reached out to help, but she shook her head and reached the porch under her own power.

"S-sorry about that. One of the primary reasons I'm here is to help strengthen my lungs. To answer your question, I had a package of letters to deliver to Mr. Braun. He is the friend of a friend of mine, and I promised her that since I was coming out this way I would take her missives to him. It was an interesting visit."

"I'm sure," Grissom responded politely. He opened the front door for Sara and indicated for her to enter first; she passed over the threshold and gave an admiring little chuckle.

"Far from haunted I see."

"The house is not—" Grissom began, and then sighed, correcting himself. "—haunted very much. Like any other wooden structure, it suffers from a certain amount of creaking and settling. But I assure you it is NOT haunted in the normal sense of the word, despite what you may have been told."

Looking around, Sara could well believe him. The foyer in which they stood had a green Turkish carpet on varnished floorboards, and walls of fitted pine, enhanced with framed curio boxes of butterflies and moths. Grissom cleared his throat a little as she leaned closer to one, studying it.

"A few specimens of _Euchloe olympia_, from Illinois."

"Really? Thought they were butterflies," Sara murmured playfully. Grissom smiled briefly, allowing her the small jest; it had been a long time since anyone, especially a woman had gently teased him.

Sara moved from one framed curio to the next, reading the labels with a thoroughness Grissom found flattering. He followed her progress down the hall, torn between fetching her the milk and staying close to answer any questions she might have. When she finally pulled away from a particularly fetching specimen of Lunar moth she flashed a smile at him that warmed him to his toes.

"Well, it's certainly a full collection, isn't it?"

"Hardly, Miss Sidle," he countered with enthusiasm. "I've barely started on the Lepidoptera of the West, not to mention the endless varieties of beetles, wasps, bees and dragonflies."

"Not to mention," Sara agreed, amused at his fervent expression. "Are you strictly an entomologist, or do you include arachnids in your studies?" When she saw his slightly startled expression she smiled again, "My sources mentioned your degree in biology, but didn't specify a particular field; given the focus of your collection I made an assumption."

"A logical leap," Grissom commended her with a smile of his own, "I have some expertise in entomology but haven't limited myself to it exclusively. Any by your use of the term 'sources' instead of 'acquaintances' or even 'associates' I deduce you're a reporter by profession."

"Yes," Sara replied in a slightly guarded tone. Not everyone was supportive of a woman earning her own living, and academics could be among the most narrow-minded in her experience. So far, the professor had been friendly, almost courtly in his courtesy. She cleared her throat. "I work for Franklin De Veron of the St. Louis Post Dispatch."

"I've heard of it. Very reliable, excellent reputation for solid news," Grissom murmured. He gave a soft sigh. "I was most impressed with their coverage of the war."

Sara nodded tightly. Grissom broke the mood by gesturing to a doorway just beyond the two of them. "If you'll make yourself comfortable in the parlor, I'll be back with our milk."

She stepped in, and looked around, feeling a sense of amusement and familiarity at once—Franklin's study back in St. Louis looked much the same. Underfoot, a thick Persian carpet in maroon and cream; on the gold and black scrolled wallpaper hung several oval portraits of stern-faced ancestors in matched pairs. The two love seats and single chair sat at the edges of the carpet; dreadful affairs upholstered in bottle green velvet and stuffed with stiff horsehair. Only the desk under the far window of the room showed any true reflection of the professor's personality at all. Sara moved to look more closely at it.

The thick ornately carved mahogany desk had a huge grey blotter barely peeking out from under stacks of notes, correspondence, ledgers, specimen boxes, bottles of ink, loosely scattered coins, a pearl-handled penknife, stacks of leather-bound books and neatly folded newspapers. Sara noted that the hurricane lamp, a gaudy affair in ruby red crystal, was being used as a paperweight for a stack of surveyor's maps. Along the back of the chair lay a thread worn gray shawl; all too easily Sara could picture the professor wrapped in it, writing late into the night, his pen racing over the pages of a ledger.

It was a sweet and slightly startling image; guiltily she touched the shawl, feeling how thin it was. Considering how far the desk was from the fireplace—

"Here we are," Grissom's voice broke into her musing. "Fresh and sweet—I've taken the liberty of offering you a few corn cakes to go with it."

"That's exceedingly kind of you," Sara replied, looking at the tray of offerings with an appreciative eye; Sam Braun's hospitality hadn't extended to food or drink, and dinner had been hours ago. Grissom gestured with his head to the sofas and Sara settled in on one gracefully.

The tray held two hinge-capped steins with ornate antler handles and a bone china plate piled high with flat little yellow cakes. Cautiously Sara picked up one of the steins and looked at the professor. He half-grinned and picked up the other.

"A gift from one of my aunts—I'm afraid I have nothing . . . daintier."

"This will do just fine, thank you—" Sara tipped the stein to her lips and drank. The milk was good; creamy and mild, richer than Sara expected. She licked her upper lip discreetly and looked up to see Grissom rubbing his own, although with his forefinger and thumb. "It's delicious, thank you."

"You're quite welcome—it makes excellent cheese as well. So—" He settled back onto the love seat opposite Sara, "—Out of all the places to take the cure, what made you choose Green Meadows, Miss Sidle?"

It was easy to talk to the professor, Sara discovered; he asked intelligent questions, and coming from a city background himself understood her position better than a few of the other residents of Green Meadows. By the time the mantle clock chimed four, Sara gave a sigh and rose reluctantly.

"I'm sorry; I had no intention of keeping you from your work, Professor—"

"Please call me Grissom; my friends do, and it's far less cumbersome. And the only thing you're keeping me from is back strain. My attempts to mount my weather vane require a little help from Warrick or Nick Stokes."

"To be sure," Sara agreed. "And you expect to be able to not only tell wind direction, but also harness atmospheric discharge with it?"

"Certainly. I hope to use a guide wire to ground it, but another to store the electrical charges in a battery." Grissom looked thoughtful. "And if I fail, well, the house may burn down, but that would probably happen if the vane was struck by a direct hit anyway."

Sara stifled a giggle at his utter pragmatism, and simultaneously felt a pang of remorse as well; she knew intimately the horrors of fire. To keep herself from delving into memories she was still trying to cope with, she flashed the professor a shy smile.

"Would you mind an audience? I would love to watch, and maybe send my editor a note—as sort of a first impression of Green Meadows as it were?"

Grissom blinked a little, and smiled back. "If you like, certainly, although the real story won't be told until the first storm. But you're more than welcome to watch tomorrow if you have no other pressing engagements." He paused a moment and added, "Do you have any medical skill?"

Sara burst out laughing; she couldn't help it, especially since his question had been asked with such wry sincerity. She caught her breath, meeting his gaze with a lingering case of the chuckles. "I have been known to bandage a head or two in my time. Are you anticipating trouble, sir?"

"It's always best to be prepared," he admitted, ushering her out of the parlor and to the porch. "And given the reputation of the house, I suspect everyone will assume the worst."

Sara nearly missed the last of his comments; as they passed another doorway down the hall she caught sight of a handsome bookcase filled with a very familiar set of novels. Grissom noted her gaze and smiled a little self-effacingly, guiding her over to them.

"Serenity Thorncroft's _Calliope Jones_ books—an indulgence, I'm afraid. I've read the classics for both English and American literature, but now and then I confess I pander to my whims. Have you read any of the novels?"

Sara swallowed. The latest unfinished manuscript lay at the bottom of her traveling trunk, complete with plot notes and questions along the margins—she hadn't figured out quite how to get Calliope out of her latest peril. Yet.

"I've skimmed a few—" she answered evasively. "Pulp, aren't they?"

"Well yes, but a cut above the usual dime fare out there—I like the author's sense of humor, and I'm intrigued by his ability to create amazing hazards," Grissom smiled. Sara shot him a questioning look.

"His ability?"

"Certainly—I'm sure Serenity Thorncroft is a pseudonym for some middle-aged cynical clerk working unsung and underpaid in some office somewhere. That doesn't draw away from any of the series' charms or ingenuity though. I'd be happy to lend you one, if you wish."

Sara bit back a smile. "That would be very kind of you—perhaps in a few days, once I've settled in a bit more."

"Agreed," Grissom nodded, and led her towards the front door once again.

In short order he had Willie hitched up again to the buckboard. Carefully, he helped Sara up, trying not to stare at her slender ankles as she climbed to the seat.

They were very pretty ankles.

That thought stayed with him as he watched the buckboard clatter off down the lane, and while it shamed him slightly, Grissom took comfort in the added knowledge that the rest of Miss Sara Sidle was as charming and memorable.

Miz Catherine Willows came down the curving staircase of the Willow Branch saloon, yawning a little. It was still early for the dinner crowd, but she liked to be up to check with Jacquie about the night's menu, and take a quick inventory of the bar. She patted her hips, smoothing down the blue silk dress, the ivory bangles on her slender arms jingling a bit.

"Hey, Miz Catherine. Nap well?"

"Greg, at my age, naps are a godsend. How are we set for tonight?" she murmured, sauntering over the polished floorboards towards the curving half moon mahogany bar where Sanders was busy wiping down the marble counter. He flashed a merry grin at her, his flyaway hair falling into his eyes; she reached out to brush his bangs away.

"Fifteen bottles of whiskey up from the cellar, one of rum, one of sherry, three kegs of beer and a fresh crate of peanuts boiled in the shell just off the train from Savannah." He told her. She smiled.

"Sounds good. You need a haircut, Greg—come on—"

He rolled his eyes, but followed her as she stepped around the bar and through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen of the Willow Branch. It was a big room, with a terra cotta tiled floor and whitewashed walls. A solid woman in a purple paisley dress and white apron looked up from an apple pie she was filling and gave a nod to the two of them.

"Miz Catherine, Greg—no touching this pie if you want to keep all your fingers—" she warned, waving a rolling pin. Greg shook his head playfully at her, the affection of an ongoing tease evident in his smile.

"I wouldn't touch your pie, I promise, Jacquie. Now the Ecklie boys—that's another story, but ME, I'm innocent."

The cook rolled her eyes, but grinned. Miz Catherine picked up one of the stools that sat near the table where Jacquie was filling the pie. "I'm borrowing this for a moment—Greg needs a haircut."

"Outside then," Jacquie agreed with a wave of her hand, "and make him bring in any late eggs afterwards."

Catherine sat Greg on the stool out in the late afternoon light, just to the side of the rain barrel. He waited while she used her comb on him, wincing when she tugged.

"It's just a trim, hold still," came her chide. "So, who had lunch with Brass?"

"How did you know about that?" Greg asked, shooting Catherine a startled look. She laughed, fishing out a pair of crane-handled scissors from their case.

"It's my saloon; I know what goes on in every corner and nook of this place, Gregory Chalmington-Sanders, so doesn't forget it. Who is she?"

"Ah," Greg smiled, letting Catherine lift his chin and began snipping at his bangs, "Well, from what I could hear, her name's Sara Sidle, and she's a Miss. Comes from Saint Louis and I think she's here for her health."

"Consumption?" Catherine queried, frowning a little. In the hen run, a few birds clucked as a hawk soared overhead in the quiet blue sky.

"Maybe," he conceded, "Although she didn't have a hankie or cough much. She's pale though. I heard her tell Brass she's staying over at Hodges' rather than Mrs. Pearson's place."

"Better choice," Catherine nodded, "Some of those rowdies at Pearson's can be a handful. So she knows Hodges?"

"Didn't SAY that—" Greg replied with a grin. "Just said she's staying there. Can't make those assumptions."

"Oh come on—why come to a little backwater like Green Meadows, unless you have some compelling reason, like friends or relatives? We don't have a lot of other draws," Catherine murmured, circling around Greg and snipping away. "Maybe she's here to get away from something back East."

There was a little pause in the conversation at this; Greg said nothing, and Catherine gently squeezed his shoulder in quiet comfort; he cleared his throat. "Maybe. Or, maybe we could just ask her. People talk, you know. Some of them hardly ever stop."

"I know—" she replied dryly, then laughed. Moving quickly she finished his haircut and brushed his shoulders, smiling up at him when he stood up. "There, looking more like a bartender and less like a shaggy winter-starved buffalo."

Self-consciously Greg ran a hand over his head. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now get those late eggs and I'll see about getting us some food before the early crowd shows up. And Greg?"

"Yes Miz Catherine?" he turned to look at her. She reached up to pat his shoulder once more.

"You know I didn't mean to . . . bring it up . . . "

He laid a hand over hers and ducked his head, smiling grimly. "It's okay. I'm happy here, even if it IS a little backwater. I hear they have a first rate saloon, you know?"

"With a champion bartender," Catherine added, turning and heading in. Greg watched her go, then turned to the hen run, taking the willow basket from the nail on the wall. He stepped inside, cooing softly to the few hens brooding on their nest boxes.

"All right ladies, what have you got for me this evening?"

As he came out again, three eggs richer, he looked up to see Doc Robbins making his slow, limping way around the corner of the Willow Branch. Greg smiled to himself, and held back, allowing him to reach the back door of the saloon and watching as Jacquie answered it, blushing. Robbins lightly kissed her hand in a courtly gesture and followed her inside, where Greg knew she would have a warm supper waiting for him.

He sighed, a gusty sound of admiration and longing. Greg knew that even curt, bossy Jacquie deserved love and happiness, as did Miz Catherine and her mysterious gentleman caller from San Francisco, and Pastor David who clearly had eyes for Miss Judy. But sometimes it was hard to watch it happening around him and he wondered if he'd ever be lucky enough to love again.

On the heels of that, Greg wondered about Miss Sara Sidle as he whistled loudly and made his way to the kitchen door of the Willow Branch saloon.


	4. Chapter 4

Sara found herself settling into Green Meadows with an ease that surprised her. Certainly the town was tiny compared to the endless bustle and crowd of St. Louis, but it had its charms, the dry air being only one of them; and the inhabitants were fascinating, as people always were. It didn't take her long to start learning the strata of society there, the invisible and usually unspoken ways that people arranged themselves.

The mayor and his wife led Green Meadows both governmentally and socially, which was to be expected, though Sara got the feeling that there was another, silent power involved somewhere, and made a note to follow up on it. Pastor David was the moral force of the town; Sara approved of him. He was no go-preacher, but a sincere man with a real calling, and her first Sunday she was impressed by his dignity at the church's little altar and his firmness in the pulpit.

She hadn't always managed to attend church back home; her schedule was erratic, and sometimes she was too tired and often too busy. But in a small place like Green Meadows, one was expected to show up at services, or be counted beyond the pale; even Miz Willows had her usual spot on a pew, the plumes of her hat nodding gracefully in time with the hymns.

Therefore, Sara dutifully went her first Sunday, pressing her best lawn as soon as her trunks were unpacked, and unearthing the correct bonnet. The church was small and relatively new, still smelling of the pine boards that formed its walls, but it was airy and well built; the windows up near the roof were only clear glass, but Sara expected that eventually the church members would raise enough money to replace them with colored panes.

She chose to come late, knowing that that was the best way to find an unclaimed seat among the habitual congregants. The little church was almost full when she arrived, but a few folks were still talking softly at the entrance, and Sara smiled and slipped past them.

The church was a cracker box, just a little longer than it was tall, with an aisle between two sets of plain wooden pews. The morning light and the yellow pine of the walls and floor made the sanctuary look as though it had been touched with honey, and while the air was warm, it wasn't stifling yet. There were sconces for candles and lamps, none needed at the moment, and a plain wooden altar draped with a beautifully embroidered cloth.

Sara chose a seat near the back, noting as she did so that some people brought cushions to soften the hard wood. Her nearest neighbors in the pew were a weather-beaten couple whose clothes proclaimed them farmers; they glanced her way and smiled in a friendly fashion, but made no move to speak to her.

Just then, two stern-looking men came down the center aisle, handing out hymnbooks to the nearest congregants as they went. The farm man took two, giving one to his wife, who leaned over to pass it to Sara. As she did, the single bell overhead tolled the last warning to stragglers, and as its echo died Miss Judy, at the small pump organ, began to play.

Sara opened the book with a surreptitious glance at the one the farm couple was sharing, and found the right page. The hymn was familiar if unexciting, and she sang along obediently, finding a certain comfort in the timeworn words.

The liturgy was easy to follow, and when the readings began, Sara listened to them with only half an ear, using the shadow of her bonnet brim to observe those around her. Already she was recognizing faces-the Hodges sat in the back, upright together, while the Ecklie twins, scrubbed within an inch of their lives, squirmed minutely near the front between their slightly haughty mother and genially smug father.

At the back, opposite Sara, sat Sheriff Brass, looking relaxed, though he had kept his hat to hand instead of hanging it up on the back wall, and Sara suspected that he was prepared to leave at a moment's notice if something came up. Three rows ahead of Sara was Warrick Brown of Brown's Livery, sitting in the outer corner of a pew and listening to the preacher with calm attention.

And on the other side, two pews ahead of the Sheriff, was Professor Grissom, sitting alone. His expression was polite but just the slightest bit abstracted, as though something besides Pastor David's clear voice was taking up his attention, and Sara couldn't help sneaking a few extra glances at him. The man was intriguing-courtly without being condescending, informal without being familiar, and obviously quite intelligent. She had not been expecting to find someone so erudite in such an isolated and newly-hewn place.

All in all, she had to reflect, he was really the most interesting person she had yet met in Green Meadows.

The service was simple but sincere; Pastor David spoke with a plain and gentle honesty that assured the listener of his faith. Sara relaxed a little as the liturgy progressed. Her own curious mind had doubts about the nature of God, but she wasn't about to dismiss the possibility of Him either, and in the meantime there was something to be said for the reassurance of familiar rituals.

However, the sanctuary grew warmer and warmer, the air getting thicker, and Sara plied the fan she'd taken from her bag, noting that most of the women were doing likewise. The men had to suffer in stolid stillness, but drops of sweat were wetting masculine hairlines despite the open doors and windows. With no breeze outside to stir the atmosphere, the accumulated heat of so many people just kept building.

Eventually Sara was wondering if she would have to leave early. Her damaged lungs were beginning to heave a little, and she could feel perspiration springing out under the heavy coil of her hair and under her corset. But before she grew dizzy the last hymn began, and she decided that she could sit through it. Walking out then would attract notice, and while she had a perfectly legitimate reason to do so, Sara didn't care to broadcast her weakness to the entire town at once.

The aftermath of the service was just as rich as the service, with the townspeople mingling in what were obviously established patterns, though Sara herself could not yet read all their nuances. Pastor David beamed and shook hands, his slightly shy demeanor overcome by the flush of faith, while the Ecklies chatted easily with various people but always seemed to keep a subtle upper hand. The Sheriff slipped out quickly, but Miz Willows lingered on the other side of the pews from the Ecklie-crowd, talking with various younger folks and flirting gently with her fan.

Professor Grissom, Sara was amused to note, had barely reached the aisle when a tall and statuesque woman about his own age descended on him, touching his arm with a gloved hand in a familiar manner. His polite, if slightly bewildered, response to her pleasantries had Sara smothering a smile; he was so obviously out of his depth with the lady, who-Sara guessed-had matchmaking on her mind.

She herself began to edge towards the door, desperate for a breath of cooler air, but people kept stopping her to offer greetings and introductions. Sara smiled and nodded, automatically making note of names and faces, and reminded herself that the stuffy little building was nothing when compared to a St. Louis slaughterhouse at the height of summer.

But her lungs still felt constricted, and it wasn't until she was out and standing in the shade of the churchyard's one lone tree that the tight band around her chest really began to ease. Sara took slow, controlled breaths as she'd been taught, too experienced now for panic but not enjoying the sensation either. The fresher, cooler air poured into her, and she felt the tight-drawn muscles along her ribs and spine loosen.

"Are you well?" asked a feminine voice at Sara's elbow, touched with both amusement and concern. "Do you need a vinaigrette?"

Sara turned. The voice belonged to a woman dressed in clothes a touch too fancy for Sunday but that were nevertheless well-tailored and flattering. She had strawberry-blonde hair under a be-plumed hat, a wide, full-lipped mouth, and arched brows over knowing eyes, and Sara estimated her to be ten to twelve years older than herself.

And at least two inches shorter, despite her high-heeled boots.

"I'm fine, thank you," Sara said with a smile. "It was just too hot in there."

The strawberry blonde woman rolled her eyes, commiserating. "Wait until summer-the ladies will be dropping right and left. Sometimes David moves the service out here; it outrages the older folks, but saves having to pick up wilted maidens."

The slightly naughty humor in her tone invited Sara to go along, and Sara found her smile widening. She held out one gloved hand. "I'm Sara Sidle."

"Of course you are." The older woman shook hands easily, her own glove ruffled at the cuff, and smirked a little at Sara's expression. "The reporter from the Post-Dispatch-everyone knows who you are, my dear. Gossip is almost instantaneous in a town this small."

She waved at someone on the other side of the small church crowd, which was mostly concentrated around a table where two women were serving lemonade and cookies. "I'm Catherine Willows, owner of the Willow Branch, and I had better warn you that you may not want to spend too much time with me if you want to remain entirely respectable in the eyes of the matrons of Green Meadows."

Sara's chin went up at the implied restriction. "I'm a reporter, Miz Willows. I talk to anyone and everyone."

Catherine chuckled, a rich sound. "I like you," she said easily, as a tall young man, lanky and dressed in shabby but expensive clothing, presented himself at her side. "May I introduce my bartender, Gregory Sanders? Greg, this is Miss Sara Sidle, new come to our little town."

Sara found her extended hand lifted to the young man's lips, a liberty that she would normally have found offensive, but the twinkle in his eye and his air of puppyish good nature made insult difficult. "A true pleasure, Miss Sidle. May I say that your beauty has brought fresh illumination to the dusty streets of Green Meadows?"

Before Sara could reply, Miz Willows rapped Greg smartly on the arm with her fan. "Easy, boy, you don't want to scare her away when she's just arrived." Her smile was both impatient and tolerant, and as Greg straightened with a grin of his own, Sara sensed a comfortable relationship between the two.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Sanders," she replied, repossessing her hand firmly. "Green Meadows is a fascinating town."

Greg opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Miz Willows tapped him again, more gently this time. "Fetch the lady some lemonade, if you please, Gregory. I don't believe she's used to this heat."

Offering a lazy salute, Greg dipped a slight bow and spun on his heel. "By your command," floated over his shoulder as he walked back towards the refreshments table.

Catherine laughed again. "He's a good lad," she said affectionately. "Come and let me introduce you to some of the other ladies, before Becky Ecklie comes to claim you for her own."

Grissom finally managed to free himself from Mrs. Pearson's rather clinging arm by dint of an in-depth discourse on _Melanoplus spretus_, which had the effect of turning her slightly green. He regretted causing distress to a lady, of course, but her presence was both puzzling and unwelcome, and manners forbid him to just shake her off. Then he had a satisfying discussion with Ortfried Brandauer about the alfalfa crop, and by the time they were finished Mrs. Pearson was embroiled in a discussion with two of her cronies, and Grissom felt safe in standing alone near the refreshments table.

Normally he didn't linger too long at these after-church socials, but he wanted another glimpse of the intriguing young woman who had stopped by his home a few days before. Reporter Sara Sidle was not like any other woman of his acquaintance, and while he had met intelligent, passionate young women before, and even taught some, none of them had fixed his attention.

Perhaps it was her lack of artifice, he mused. Miss Sidle looked one in the eye and eschewed the demure flourishes of most females. It was refreshing.

He looked around for her, and found her by the side of Catherine Willows, which didn't surprise him. Catherine was always alert to social developments in Green Meadows, and was quick to take what advantages she could, though to be sure she had a good heart under her sharp business sense. As Grissom watched, Gregory Sanders bent over Sara's hand.

The gesture made Grissom frown. There was nothing wrong with the young man-indeed, he was a charming, wholesome fellow, if given to the occasional practical joke-but for some reason Grissom didn't like the thought of him flirting with Miss Sidle. It just wasn't…right.

Catherine sent Gregory Sanders off with a wave, and the young man bowed and headed towards Grissom's spot, taking a place in the small line for lemonade. An impulse stirred, and Grissom chose two glasses from the table next to him, deciding to anticipate Catherine's knight. It was mannerly, after all.

As he neared the ladies, Grissom observed that Catherine was gorgeously dressed as always, while Miss Sidle was plainer but neat as a pin in a light-blue sprigged lawn gown and a matching bonnet. The two made a compelling contrast-one flaunting her femininity, the other modest; one focused on sensuality, the other clearly more intent on the intellectual life. Catherine's cheeks were subtly made up-no matter what she said, Grissom could smell the powder when he stood near her-but Sara was pale. Paler than she should be, Grissom noticed with a slight frown.

Catherine being an old friend, he didn't hesitate to approach. "Refreshments, ladies?" he asked, bowing his head to both, and Catherine accepted a glass with a pleased smile. Sara took hers and dimpled charmingly.

"Professor Grissom, how nice to see you again."

Catherine's brows went up. "You are acquainted?"

Sara sipped the drink and nodded. "The professor was good enough to give me directions earlier this week when my horse decided to take a, shall we say, creative route home."

Grissom noted her discretion, but knew it to be unnecessary; Catherine might be a gossip, but she was not malicious, nor narrow-minded enough to take offense at Sara's visit to his home. Attitudes in the West were easier than those in more established cities, and women took more responsibility for their own propriety.

"Willie was taking advantage of a light load," he elaborated, and Catherine nodded in recognition.

"He has a mind of his own," she agreed. "So, Miss Sidle, though I'm sure you're tired of answering, why have you come to Green Meadows?"

"For my health," Sara explained politely. "And to write a series of articles on this settlement in the West." She went on to elaborate on her proposed articles, and Grissom listened with interest. She said nothing he had not already heard from her own lips, and he was reasonably certain that Catherine knew much of the information already herself thanks to gossip, but polite conversation required one to pretend that one hadn't heard.

As Catherine asked about the latest fashions in St. Louis, Grissom took the opportunity to look around. Gregory had apparently put his superfluous lemonade to good use, as he was currently engaged in flirting lightly with two of the young women from the McBride spread north of town. Sara's slightly impatient reply, however, made him look back.

"I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to dress fashions, Miz Willows," she said, smiling courteously. "I've always chosen my own garments for utility rather than appearance."

That might be true, but Grissom had already observed that what he'd seen of her suits to date was far from dowdy. Miss Sidle had either a good eye or a good dressmaker.

Catherine smiled back; Grissom couldn't tell if Sara saw it, but he was aware of the faint hint of pity in her expression. "My dear, there's no reason they can't be both."

Grissom suppressed an ill-timed snort; he had the feeling that Catherine's notion of utility did not precisely match that of Sara's.

Miss Sidle shrugged delicately, and reached up to push back an escaping curl. "I'm sure you're right. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me; I think I'll return to the Emporium. I'm still somewhat tired from my journey."

Catherine's slightly superior attitude melted into concern. "Oh, of course. Let me fetch Greg-he can walk you back."

Sara's skin was still pale, and as she frowned Grissom became aware of the lines of strain near her eyes. "I'd be pleased to offer my services as escort," he said before she could protest, and cocked his head, hoping that Sara would understand his offer to save her from a fight.

Miss Sidle's chin went up, but then she let out a breath. "That would be very kind of you, Professor."

She bid Catherine farewell, and they walked off together, away from the church and back towards the center of town. Sara's steps were slow, and Grissom felt a frisson of concern; she seemed like the sort of woman who strode briskly. "Are you well?" he asked quietly. The church had been close, and she had said herself that her health was not the best.

Her lips tightened, then relaxed into a rueful smile. "I will be."

Grissom nodded, and spared her from needing to divert strength to speech by saying nothing. But as they made their way over the hard dusty ground, he realized that their silence was comfortable, that there was no need to fill the air with words.

The Emporium was dark and closed when they reached it, and Grissom walked with Sara around the side to the back staircase. She stopped at the bottom step. "Thank you for your escort," she said, still smiling a little.

Grissom bowed slightly, fancier manners left over from fancier times. "It was my pleasure," he said, finding himself smiling back. "You're obviously a woman who doesn't require protection, but this seemed easier than trying to talk Catherine out of the idea."

Sara chuckled. "She does seem to be a lady of strong opinions. Which I admire," she added hastily.

"I do as well," Grissom replied, wishing he could prolong the conversation, but not wanting to strain her any further. The walk had added no color to her cheeks. "I hope that your first Sunday in Green Meadows has provided you with plenty of material for your articles."

"Oh yes," Sara said with more enthusiasm. "In fact, I should make notes-"

Grissom nodded. "I'm sure we'll meet again, then."

They said polite goodbyes, and as an escort should, Grissom lingered as Sara climbed the narrow stairs to the second story. He was guiltily aware that his position allowed him increasing glimpses of her ankles as she ascended, but managed to bring his gaze back up as she turned to wave at the top.

Then she was gone, and Grissom headed back to Zeus to go home, realizing that he truly was hoping that they would meet again.


	5. Chapter 5

Her room was breathlessly hot, but Sara followed Mrs. Hodges' instructions, using the pole provided to open the transom above her door and then crossing the room to open the window. Since the hallway had vents at either end, this created a cross-breeze, and although the air remained quite warm, it was at least moving. She pinned the curtains closed, loosely enough that the breeze flowed around them.

Weary with the aftermath of her attack, Sara took advantage of solitude and stripped out of her clothing once more, until only her chemise and drawers remained. It would have horrified a lady of her mother's generation, but Sara had learned to be ruthlessly practical, particularly in matters of health. A delicate constitution had no place in the press.

The water in her pitcher was fresh; Mrs. Hodges was scrupulous in such things. Gratefully Sara wetted a cloth and wiped the ever-present Nevada dust from her skin, feeling the breeze cool the damp skin in the cloth's wake. It was heavenly.

She had told Professor Grissom the truth-notes were a necessity despite her excellent memory, particularly for a long-term project such as this. She sat down at the small scratched desk and wrote out what she'd observed and deduced that morning, making small word-sketches of appearance and personality. Catherine, vivid character that she was, had almost an entire page to herself.

Grissom . . . Sara did not write down their walk, knowing that she would remember it without help. She'd already made notes on her first meeting with him, but that morning had seemed somewhat more personal, almost as though she and the professor had understood some silent joke that Miz Willows had missed entirely.

He really was intriguing.

Finally Sara capped the bottle and set her pen aside, ignoring her slightly inky fingers. She stretched, grateful to be free of her corset, and rose to pad over to her narrow bed and its noisy tick. Part of her wanted to be out and exploring, but a larger part wanted rest and sleep, and health again.

She lay down and drew up the light sheet, and the breeze swept her gently into sleep.

Sara looked up at the three men working diligently (if not clumsily) up on the roof of the house and jotted another note. She sat in the shade cast by the wagon, a blanket spread on the grassy rise of the yard. Periodically Jonathon Ecklie would bounce over to her with bulletins about the progress and she nodded, well aware of what was happening, but loathe to take away the boy's sense of involvement.

"Did you HAVE to make this thing out of solid oak?" came the low complaint of the youngest man on high—Nicholas Stokes, Sara remembered. He'd had the nicest teeth she'd ever seen on a handyman.

"Stability and non-conductivity—" she heard Grissom reply. "Both are essential to the safety of the project."

"Yeah, well what about the safety of the handymen?" Warrick asked, but in a tone light enough to insure it was a jest. In answer, Grissom gave a little sigh that she could hear all the way down where she sat.

"You're anchored with rope, and if the weather vane falls, let it. I can build another—I can't repair a broken neck, understood?"

"Understood—" Nick replied absently, shifting himself. He pushed the weather vane up, muscles bulging against the linen of his shirt. Sara absently admired his form, but her glance kept returning to Grissom, who was straddling the roof of the house, utterly focused on the task.

He looked dashing, she thought, with his embroidered vest hanging open and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. Occasionally a breeze would flick through his curls, and for a moment, she playfully cast him as a bearded Zeus looking for thunderbolts.

Taking the imagery further, she eyed Warrick and saw him as noble Apollo, his handsome profile clear in the spring sunshine, and Nick as a grinning Adonis.

A trio of masculine pulchritude; Sara felt herself blush for her thoughts and demurely looked away for a moment. Jonathon was swinging on the porch rails, a Cupid in his own right, with a grubby face and freckled grin. He flung himself forward and managed a somersault before skipping over to her again.

"What are you writing?"

"A letter to my friend. I need to tell him that I've arrived safely and met many interesting people here in Green Meadows," Sara replied. Jonathon nodded. He plucked a nearby dandelion puff and blew on it, sending little white downy seeds everywhere.

"Will you tell him about me?"

"Certainly. And your brother too," Sara admitted. "No letter would be complete without you."

Jonathon grinned at that, and pointed to the roof. "Or them. I sure hope none of them fall off. It hurts when you do."

Sara looked at the boy's profile and smirked a little. "And pray tell just how many roofs have you fallen off of, Jonathon Ecklie?"

He laughed. "Well, Josiah 'n me jumped from the train station roof once while we were looking for the Thursday train, and another time I slipped off of the big warehouse behind Warrick's stables. That one hurt because I landed on my shoulder. Doc Robbins had to give it a yank to put it right."

Sara winced a bit as memories of other conversations with other grubby urchins came back; cheerful boasts of daring deeds and whispered confessions of misdeeds all shared over cups of steaming cocoa or applecart lunches. Some of those adventures had found their way into the _Calliope Jones_ stories, and some had been reworked to be stories for the paper.

"Hey!" a yell made her look up; Nick had lost his footing for a moment, and then began to slide down the roof; he caught himself and managed to stop before reaching the edge. Grissom and Warrick had braced themselves.

"Nick, are you all right?" Grissom demanded tersely.

"A little tore up on my arm, but nothing too dangerous," came the quick reply. "Is the thing on yet?"

Warrick nodded, eyeing his side of the weather vane. Grissom handed him a mallet and looked back at Nick. "It's just waiting to be pinned in. Think you can get down?"

"Yeah . . . you two can handle the rest of it?" Nick asked, edging one boot towards the ladder resting near the edge of the roof.

"Yes we can—Sara, I have some bandages and other supplies in the kitchen, in the cabinet next to the stove," Grissom directed, and Sara set aside her pencil and notebook and rose to her feet. Nick got to the ladder as she reached the porch steps, and she paused to make sure he made it down all right.

Sara could see the blood staining the rip in his shirt, but his hand seemed to grip without a problem, so as soon as his boots hit the ground she whisked up the steps and into the house.

She hadn't been as far as Grissom's kitchen yet, but she knew where it was. A big room with a huge scarred table that Sara suspected saw more experiments than meals, it was clean and tidy; but she didn't spare it much more than a glance, instead heading straight for the cabinet Grissom had named.

The shelves were filled with an odd assortment of objects, but Sara focused on the wide lidded basket that held bottles and neat rolls of bandages. Taking it down, she carried it straight back out to the front, where Nick had eased himself into one of the battered straight chairs on the porch and was gingerly unrolling his sleeve. The tear was above the fold of the cuff, running from about mid-forearm to elbow, and while the red patch on the rough linen was wider than it had been just moments ago, Sara could tell that the bleeding wasn't fast enough to be immediately dangerous.

Jonathon was hovering, looking interested and just slightly scared. Sara smiled at him. "Fetch me that crate, would you, Jonathon?" she asked, pointing at the wooden box that apparently served as a small table. He darted off to do her bidding, and Sara pulled up another chair to sit by Nick.

"It's going to have to come off," she told him calmly. Nick blushed.

"Uh, is that really necessary, Miz Sidle?"

His embarrassment was a little endearing, but Sara nodded firmly. "Yes, unless you want me to cut the sleeve open." Jonathon pushed the crate into place next to her chair, and she set the basket on it with another smile to thank him. Pulling off her hat to see better, she handed it to the boy to hold for her.

As she expected, Nick acquiesced, pulling off the shirt to reveal a smooth and muscled chest. His flush deepened, spreading down his neck, and Sara kindly ignored it, instead reaching for his arm and turning it so she could examine the wound.

The basket was well-stocked. There were clean rags to blot the blood, and as Sara lifted one out she saw needles, thread, and a small pair of scissors next to the bottles of carbolic acid and tincture of iodine. Professor Grissom appeared to be prepared for any emergency.

She wiped the blood away with a light touch, not wanting to cause Nick any further pain. The scrape was long but not too deep; while blood welled immediately up again, the flow wasn't quick. To Sara's somewhat experienced eye, it didn't look as though it would require stitches.

Thumps and raised voices drifted down from the roof, but Sara ignored them, letting Nick's arm go and picking up another rag and the bottle of carbolic acid. "This will sting," she informed him as she poured the liquid onto the rag.

Nick shrugged, propping his elbow on his knee to keep his arm extended before her. Sara took his wrist in one hand and pressed the soaked rag to the gash with the other, holding it in place to be sure that the disinfectant reached the wound. Nick hissed slightly, and his arm tensed in her grip, muscles bulging above the elbow, but he didn't pull away.

Wincing in sympathy, Sara dragged the cloth down the scrape; better to hurt now than to suffer later. By the time she finished beads of sweat had sprung out on Nick's temples, and his teeth were clenched. "That's almost worse than gettin' hurt in the first place," he said, managing a chuckle.

Grissom held the weather vane steady as Warrick hammered in the last pin. He wasn't worried about Nick-the younger man couldn't have made it down the ladder so easily if he were seriously hurt-but he wanted this task over and done with nonetheless. Working on a roof was dangerous even with anchor ropes.

"There. Let's see if she holds," Warrick said, squinting up at him, and Grissom loosened his grip on the vane, waiting to see if it would sway. But it stayed steady as he released it, and remained steady when he gave it a good hard shake.

"Excellent." Grissom bent and snagged the end of the grounding wire, already installed and clipped into place, and fastened the end securely to the weather vane.

"We through?" Warrick asked, straightening carefully. Grissom nodded, putting up a hand to stop the weather vane from turning as a breeze caught it.

"Go ahead down. I'll be right behind you."

Warrick made his steady way over to the ladder, releasing his anchor rope before going down, and Grissom followed, pausing once to look back and watch the vane swing into place to point the wind. Satisfied, he descended to solid ground, taking the ropes with him.

Warrick was mopping his face with the capacious handkerchief he carried in one pocket, and took the ropes to coil them. Nick was on the porch, sitting in one of the chairs with Jonathon in close attendance, and Sara-

Grissom frowned as she leaned forward over Nick's powerful arm. Her lips pursed, and Grissom realized that she was blowing air over the wound, presumably to ease the sting. But the sight of her so close to Nick's bare torso-and the grateful look the young man was bestowing on the glossy braids under his chin-made something unpleasant stir in Grissom's ribcage.

He pushed it down. Sara seemed to be a competent nurse, and Grissom watched as she quietly directed Jonathon to hand her items from the basket as she wrapped Nick's arm. When the neat bandage was in place, she smiled up at Nick.

"There. I'd have the doctor take a look at it, though, when you get back to town."

"I'll do that. Thank you kindly, Miz Sidle." His boyish grin seemed to make her realize how close they were; she dropped her eyes, and Grissom's teeth clenched. He stepped forward, heading for the porch steps.

"Are you all right, Nicholas?"

Nick turned to him, still smiling but nodding respectfully. "It's just a scratch, Professor, but Miz Sidle here fixed it up nice. Nicely," he corrected himself as Grissom raised a brow. Nick flexed his wrist. "The vane all set?"

"It's working well." Grissom stepped onto the porch, where Sara was rewinding a length of lint bandage. "I see you found the supplies all right."

She looked up, and her quick warm smile did much to ease his tension. "I did. You keep a good kit, Professor."

He shrugged. "I often have to do my own doctoring."

Grissom watched as Sara packed the basket neatly and replaced the lid, and then he stepped forward to take the soiled cloth and the supplies. "I'll take these back in and bring out luncheon. Shall we dine al fresco?"

Nick was buttoning up his shirt and looked slightly confused at his question, and Warrick frowned faintly, but Sara gave him another smile. "Perhaps on the porch? I'm afraid the sun's still a little strong for me."

"An excellent suggestion." And it was; he could easily see how her fair skin would find the Nevada sun harsh. "Gentlemen, could I trouble you to move the parlor table and chairs out here?"

The two men exchanged grins and went inside, and Jonathon bounded after. Grissom knew that the smaller, light table would not tax Nick's wounded arm. Grissom turned to the woman still seated on the battered chair. "I'll be back in a moment-"

She rose with graceful haste. "Oh, let me help. I'd like a better look at that experiment you have going in your kitchen."

With that, how could he refuse?

They made a merry meal of it, seated around the table and passing bowls of new potatoes and plates of sandwiches. Grissom provided cider for the men, but he and Sara and Jonathon shared some of Bessie's creamy milk; and they ate and laughed and talked as the sweet gentle breeze cooled the porch air. Grissom saw the admiring glances that Nick and Warrick sent Sara's way; Warrick's were more subtle, but both men clearly appreciated her charms. Nevertheless, his unease was soothed somewhat by her attitude-she smiled back, to be sure, but no more than she smiled at him. And he could see that the others could barely keep up with her quick wit.

And when it came time for them to leave, she accepted the younger men's offer of an escort back to town-but the press of her hand in Grissom's seemed to hint at a reluctance to leave.

He watched them go, and wondered at himself. Certainly, they were handsome, dark and bright, and charming; Warrick was an established businessman as well. Grissom was wealthier than either-not that he thought Sara cared for such things, but it couldn't hurt-and he understood her. Her drive, her independence, her thirst for knowledge-they were alike in so many ways.

_Nick doesn't understand her spirit. He admires it, but he doesn't understand it. And as for Warrick..._Grissom had reason to suspect that the younger man's admiration was just that and no more. _He has his eye on someone else, I believe..._

A long moo broke into his thoughts, and Grissom snorted and shook his head, turning back to the dirty plates. "A moment, Bessie," he called, and began stacking dishes. Time for more practical things than thoughts of one slender, fascinating woman.

It was later that doubt returned, creeping in with the chill of the night. Grissom knew he found Sara Sidle more intriguing, more congenial, than any other female of his acquaintance; but as he finished writing up some notes, he frowned at himself. _She came West for her health, true, but that is no guarantee that she will stay. I've heard her speak of her home in St. Louis, and she's also mentioned an interest in going further West, as far as San Francisco even. She may decide to stay no longer than it takes for her lungs to recover their strength. _

It was a dismal thought-Sara had so quickly become a congenial companion, her visits brightening his days and her mind a constant challenge to his. Is it right to try to keep her here? his conscience asked sternly. _She's young, she's vital-there is so much more she could see and do. And she's a reporter by trade; there is little to report in a tiny place like Green Meadows. _

Grissom sighed as melancholy swamped him. Life would be quiet again if-when-Sara left, and he wondered when "quiet" had shifted from a desirable quality to one that seemed so dull.

_Have I the right to try to persuade her to stay?_


	6. Chapter 6

Mia Hodges looked out the window when the long wail of the train whistled out. It was a low sound, and never failed to make a little shiver roll up her spine; a shiver that once brought on fear, and now had the silvery tinge of pleasure to it.

Memories.

Smiling a little to herself, she set aside the bowl of corn meal she was sifting and dusted her fingers on the apron around her waist. Mia moved to the front door of the Emporium and looked out, towards the horse trough. Her husband was working the pump in his methodical way, lightly rinsing out two buckets; when he saw her, Mia watched the look happen again, and smiled.

He always reacted the same way when she stole up on him quietly, and it never failed to move her; a look of dazed worship, quickly replaced with whatever expression he'd been wearing before she'd interrupted him. Mia never mentioned the look, but it was one of the little joys of her marriage, and certainly one she treasured. David Hodges looked up at her and smiled faintly, his cravat slightly loose under his celluloid collar, his sleeves rolled up to show his corded and pale forearms.

"Heard the train come in, Mr. Hodges," she told him softly. "Want me to step across to Warrick's and ask for the hitch?"

"Thank you Mrs. Hodges; that would be capital. If I were a betting man, I'd guess that Professor Grissom's Sears and Roebuck order has very probably come in, along with Miss Catherine's second barrel of peanuts." His words were formal, but there was a softness to his tone, and Mia Hodges smiled enough to let her dimple deepen. Taking a moment to untie her apron, she laughed.

"I agree on the barrel of peanuts, but I don't think the professor's Strato-Wonder is going to be with the freight just yet, dear. What say you to that?"

"Hmmm," he stalled, setting the buckets down on the wooden sidewalk outside of the Emporium and rinsing his hands carefully. "I stand by my instinct, so I think we need something to sweeten the wager. What are you willing to put on the line should I be right?"

Mia let her pretty smile quirk a bit and shot him a knowing look. "Fresh biscuits with dinner, along with a slather of Miss Judy's peach preserves if you are in fact, correct. And should you be in the wrong-"

"—Which I hardly EVER am," Hodges told her firmly, "But in that rare event, should the Strato-Wonder fail to be on yon ferrous colossus, then I would be happy to finally build you the flowerboxes for our bedroom window. Will that suffice?"

"Supremely, Mr. Hodges," Mia told him, and handed him the apron. He took it with a little incline of his head, and as his wife made her way across the wide thoroughfare towards the livery stable, David Hodges watched her with a small rush of delight.

Mia. His wife—that truth was still enough to make him smile, to make him remember that not every man had his luck. Hodges clutched the apron in his hand and looking down on it, thought back to the day he'd first seen Mia Dickerson . . . .

Two years ago, when Green Meadows was only half the size it was now. Winter had been cold and long; Hodges remembered how swollen his hands had gotten, and how he'd wondered if the Emporium was ever going to break even. It was a good investment; he knew that instinctively, but February was a hard month for selling merchandise, even back East, and it had been days since anyone had stopped in for anything more than a bag of flour or cornmeal. Although he'd been used to his own company, months of it was pretty oppressive, and he'd gone out early that morning to see if the stagecoach from Lake Mead had come in yet. Few passengers bothered with anything more than a quick meal and a bath at The Willow Branch before re boarding and moving on, but it was always interesting to see new faces.

Hodges remembered clearly seeing the slender figure wrapped in a slate blue shawl descend from the coach, and the awkwardness of her land legs as she stepped down onto the nearly frozen dirt of the main street. Her sunbonnet had cast her face in shade, but the proud, yet shy stance of her form touched him, and he crossed the street to speak to Jared Broughman, the driver on a ruse to get closer.

Jared had been sick, sniffling and coughing between his words. "Hodges, yeah, brung ya that damned seed catalog you've been hounding me about—" A rough toss, and a battered brown-paper package had dropped into his hands, the label coming ungummed, the twine frayed. "Nearly two pounds, so you owe me eleven cents, you son of a—"

"—Fine, Jared, fine." Hodges knew he'd fished out a dime and was patting his pockets frantically for a spare penny, all too aware that Jared about to sneeze on him again. He'd found the coin, only to have to slip though his fingers and spin away, down towards the frozen mud. Before it hit though, a slender hand reached out and, odds against odds, caught it. Hodges remembered seeing that, and appreciating the extraordinariness of that move. When he looked up, it was into the face of the woman holding his penny.

"Yours, sir."

"I'm in your debt-" the words had slipped out lightly but sincerely, and in that one fateful second of time Hodges remembered feeling his stomach tighten oddly. Not with hunger, nor with illness, but something new and ticklish.

Then Jared had coughed again, deliberately and Hodges remembered feeling it against the back of his collar. Turning, he'd caught the flash of contempt in the man's expression, and in that moment realized the situation completely. Hodges made it a point to square his shoulders and look back at the woman, to smile at her gently as he inclined his head and handed the penny up to Jared.

"I realize it's forward of me, Ma'am, but my name is David Hodges and I'd appreciate the honor of escorting you across this street to whatever establishment you'd like to visit while you are here. We may be in the West, but a few of us still remember our manners."

And the quick flash of her nervous smile; the sweet brown eyes locking on his as she stared at him from the depths of her sunbonnet. "Oh, thank you, but that's not necessary-"

"It would be my pleasure-" And he'd moved to her side, close enough to be with her, far enough apart to be courteous, feeling as if he belonged there. Then came her soft reply. "Thank you, sir. My name is Miss Dickerson and I appreciate your gallantry. Is there a colored section of town?"

Her request harshly brought a few realities back in mind, and Hodges remembered feeling a tight pain in his chest.

But they'd managed. Mia had come out west to marry a blacksmith who already had a wife by the time she'd arrived. She hadn't enough money to go back home, to Philadelphia, so she'd chosen to travel further west and seek work as a maid or cook. All of this had come out over a lunch of beans and biscuit over the Emporium counter; Hodges had loved her dainty manners even as he saw how desperately hungry she was.

Before they were done with lunch he'd suggested she apply at The Willow Branch and at the bank of Green Meadow, promising a letter of referral to add to the ones she already carried.

Miss Mia stayed on after the stagecoach left, and lodged in a back room at the Willow Branch, doing odd jobs for Miz Willows for a while, but there wasn't enough work for her there, and the Ecklies already had Miss Judy. After a few lean weeks, Hodges asked her to work the stockroom at the Emporium, and to take in some of the sewing requested by Mrs. Pearson. Apparently, word of her talent with a needle spread, and soon Miss Mia became the person you went to in Green Meadows if you needed any additions to your wardrobe. Quietly proud of her, Hodges had turned one of the back rooms into a sewing parlor and kept her supplied with thread, fabric and all the little necessities for the profession.

And little by little they began to keep company. Lunches together each day became habit. Hodges found himself grateful for her help at the front counter when things got busy at the Emporium. She insisted on darning his socks every few weeks, and by the time spring came, Miss Mia was as much a part of the daily life of the Emporium as he was.

Miss Mia helped him reorganize the pantry shelves and made quiet suggestions about what to order for summer. He in turn took her advice about a kitchen garden and the latest fashions. By mid-summer, David Hodges realized he was hopelessly in love with the tall, graceful woman working at his side.

But how to win her? He already knew they were compatible in a comfortable, slightly formal way-the more objective part of his mind knew Miss Mia was an asset as a business partner. Hodges remembered that the less objective parts of himself that had nothing to do with his mind had put forth their own argument in favor of the match. In desperation he sought the advice of the only woman he knew would be able to understand his dilemma. Miz Catherine listened to him pour out his story over a few glasses of whisky and agreed to help.

It had been difficult at first; Mia's first rejection had nearly crushed him until he'd learned it was out of fear for him and his reputation. He'd cursed and gotten drunk and ended up asleep in the tiny cemetery next to the church, curled up between the headstones until Mia came and found him, taking him back and putting him to bed. He awoke with a hangover and new determination. He proposed again to her later that night as they stood together on the darkened porch of the Emporium, looking up at the full moon hanging over the horizon.

"David," she'd murmured helplessly, leaning against the pillar of the porch, her voice low and husky, "I can't-I'm a woman of color; you'll be in danger all your life, and for the world, I would never do that to you."

"You are the woman I fell in love with, color be damned, Mia Dickerson," he'd muttered back. "I wouldn't care if you were as green as a shuck of corn or blue as turquoise, dear. And as for being in danger-" he'd sneered, feeling a wave of bleakness rolling through is stomach. "-Men die for lesser loves every day. I'm not afraid to do so for you."

The simple truth, and when Mia's hand slipped into his, Hodges squeezed it tightly.

They were married two weeks later in a simple ceremony after the Sunday service; the town turned out in quiet sweet support and the potluck luncheon became an impromptu reception lasting long into the late afternoon and evening. Hodges had walked with Mia back to the Emporium and easily carried her over the threshold. They'd locked up the store together as the crickets sang, and gently he'd followed his bride upstairs, to their bedroom.

Back in the here and now, Hodges shook his head gently, trying very hard not to smile even as a blush washed over his face. Ah yes, point in fact, the Emporium hadn't opened at all on Monday, and only by noon of Tuesday.

Compatible, indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

Grissom looked on impatiently as his merchandise was being unloaded from the train. His behavior wasn't unnoticed; Sara watched him with amusement as he bit back the urge to remind the freightmen to be careful. She sat on the buckboard bench, holding the reins on Zeus as the three men lowered the huge wooden crate into the body of the wagon with Grissom's help. Luckily the day was slightly overcast, and the freight platform empty except for a few of the weekly orders for the Emporium coming in as well. Grissom thanked the men, tipping them absently with silver dollars as he turned and began to tie down the crate with rope. The three freightmen helped, grinning.

"Sure and what have y' ordered now, Professor?" the oldest rolled out in the soft heavy brogue of the Old Country. Grissom flashed a quick grin of his own.

"A device to rise skyward above this little metropolis of ours and view the panorama of our majestic Manifest Destiny."

The freightmen looked at one another; one circled a finger at his temple, indicating precisely what he thought of Grissom's mental condition, but the Irishman shook his head. "None of that, O'Shay-if the professor is intent on flyin' then that's his affair, right-o." Turning back to Grissom, he added, "And should it not work out-well thank you ever so kindly for your generosity. The boys and I will do right by you at your wake."

Sara fought a laugh at Grissom's somewhat annoyed expression as he tied off the last of the rope securely. "Thank you, Mr. Hennessey, although I think we can put off the occasion of my wake for several years to come. Are there any other crates?"

"None sir, although there are several for Mr. Hodges-" Hennessey made a long-suffering face, "And a new carriage for Mr. Braun, all the way from England no less." Under his breath he added, "La-di-dah."

Grissom smiled at that, and immediately covered it up with a cough; mischievously Sara called over her shoulder, "Grissom? Are you catching a cold?"

"Never better," He assured her, climbing up beside her on the buckboard bench. He busied himself with opening what appeared to be a twine-tied bundle of instructions, his ivory-handled pen knife slicing through the rough cords. Sara looked at him uncertainly and he flashed her a quick smile. "Please, drive on-"

The buckboard rolled forward after she gave Zeus a gentle chuck of the reins.

As they trotted down the main thoroughfare, Grissom pulled out the top sheet from the packet on his lap and began to read aloud, his tone light and pleased. "Congratulations and salutations! You are now the proud owner of a Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship! This marvelous device is the latest in a long line of balloons, rockets and Ascension vehicles designed to further our knowledge of the skies above the geography below us! Please take a moment to read all the instructions for the assembly of your Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship before you unpack the same. Several necessary steps in preparation are needed to insure a safe and simple inflation of the Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship. Your shipping inventory is included, and it would be wise and prudent to check off each received piece or item as you unpack it. Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer's factory is located in North Canaan Connecticut, and should you fail to receive any component or piece to your Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship, inquiries may be sent there."

Sara cleared her throat, and without looking at Grissom softly asked, "I'm sorry-what was the name of this aerodynamic monstrosity again, Professor?"

"It's a Doctor Thaddeus Hoople-you're teasing me, aren't you?" Grissom broke off, shooting her an annoyed look that he couldn't keep. Sara burst out laughing, and Grissom joined in, shaking his head as he looked down at the papers in his lab. "Yes, well I admit that the excessively lengthy name and ego-pandering are a bit much, but I'm willing to overlook that if the device lives up to the hyperbole."

"Yes, yes, I understand-at least, to a point," Sara muttered, tugging the reins to guide Zeus around the far side of Doc Robbins' office and onto the rutted track that was the beginning of Prosperity Road.

The heat of the day made the air shimmer faintly, and Sara was glad her straw boater kept most of the glare out of her eyes. The trip was an easy one, and she was glad to be out at Grissom's once more; although she saw him at Sunday services and then again at the Emporium on Wednesdays when he restocked supplies, it was definitely more pleasant when they didn't have the scrutiny of the entire town to deal with. Certain little looks and comments left Sara feeling that far too many citizens of Green Meadows were watching the both of them with keen and slightly amused interest.

Then again, it was a small town, she sighed to herself, and any source of entertainment was fair game. She'd seen the Ecklie boys racing crickets, heard the poker games over at the Willow Branch filtering through the still air to her window at night, and watched with fascination as she herself had been sweetly, ruthlessly swept into the social circle presided over by Becky Ecklie. Everyone had a place in Green Meadows, and she was being moved into hers, right smartly.

Sara didn't mind too much; she'd learned enough of the practical amenities of quilting to fit in, and it was clear that much of the town was run by a matriarchal oligarchy. Becky Ecklie and Miz Catherine were in theory the opposite ends of the spectrum, but in the quiet of the Ecklie parlor, they both cooed over Lizzie Scott's new baby, and both clucked anxiously over the news of territorial fighting from the north. The few hours Sara spent each Tuesday in the company of Missus Becky, Miz Catherine, Mrs. Hodges, and the formidable Mrs. Pearson were informative to say the least. As the maid, Judy, served tea and cookies, Sara learned that Warrick had served honorably in the Union Army, along with Doc Robbins. She learned that there was an Indian burial ground on the other side of the railroad tracks. She heard stories about the mysterious Watson place, and under it all, Sara Sidle had the distinct impression that she was being sized up and found acceptable by the ladies of Green Meadows.

Now that spring had rolled into high, hot summer, Sara also felt that she herself had become part of some quiet little . . . . scheme. Concerning what, she wasn't sure, but it was there; an undercurrent hinted at in little smirks and nods-

"I said, could you please go a little slower, Sara? I'm having trouble reading when you're driving Zeus at this pace," Grissom broke into her thoughts. Startled, she pulled out of her musings and gave a gentle tug on the leather straps in her hands; instantly the big Hackney slowed, shaking his head a little and making his bridle jingle. Sara bit her lip.

"Sorry, I was just pondering something. So, have you managed to find the list of parts that should be here, composing the Thaddeus Moopleheyer Strato-Heaven Wonder Ace Flying Flibberty-Gibbet Rigmarole?"

"You're not taking this in with the gravity the situation demands," Grissom chided her lightly, his amused expression meeting hers.

She laughed lightly. "I thought the whole point of the balloon was to defy all gravity," came her counter. "To flap with the buzzards."

"Soar," he replied. "Buzzards soar and circle. And yes, to answer your question, I have the list here in hand."

"Ah, so once we get to your house, we're NOT going to settle on the porch for milk and small talk, are we?"

Grissom gave her a glance that was both endearing and slightly exasperated; seeing it, Sara laughed and urged Zeus on a little faster. They rumbled onwards, the buckboard bouncing in the ruts along the road. A few startled jackrabbits darted across in front of them, and Sara spotted a patch of desert marigolds blooming along the trail.

"I forgot how charming wildflowers can be," she murmured half to herself.

Next to her, Grissom looked up from his list, blinking. "I don't know about charming. Certainly they provide sustenance for the wildlife and attract the insects, but those processes have more to do with coloration and scent than charm."

Sara shot him a dry look and said nothing, but the corner of her mouth quirked a little. Grissom blinked, surprised at how that small expression stung. He amended, "I prefer to reserve the adjective 'charming' for present company."

Startled, Sara tightened her fingers on the reins for a moment, then laughed softly. "I didn't think you were the flirtatious type, Grissom. But it's all right-I intended on helping you set up this contraption of yours just the same."

"Sara-" he began to protest, feeling warm and anxious at the same time. She hummed a little and looked at him over her shoulder, her brown eyes twinkling.

"Now I see why Mrs. Pearson speaks SO highly of you; she's quite taken with that silver tongue of yours."

"M-Mrs. Pearson?" Grissom stammered, looking sweetly bewildered. "The somewhat Amazonian proprietress of the boarding house?"

"The very one," Sara assured him, feeling impish now. "I've heard your charms enumerated by the same-apparently you've made quite an impression with the freshness of your milk, and the promptness of your deliveries."

Grissom blinked and appeared stunned, and Sara let him dangle in the wind for a few minutes more, amused at how at a loss he was for a response. "Come now, you haven't been leading her along, have you?"

"Sara, I assure you, I doubt it's physically possible to lead that particular woman anywhere, and I've had only a handful of conversations with her the entire time I've lived in Green Meadows," he explained, feeling an odd but urgent need to clarify his position. Sara said nothing, but looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, noting his slightly worried expression. She smirked, but more softly this time.

"Grissom-surely you can't be blind to the machinations of women."

"I'm aware of their strengths and talents," he admitted honestly, feeling a little flush of heat go up his chest under his shirt and vest, "And grateful for their indulgent vocation as wives and mothers, even if I myself haven't had nearly the social intercourse with them than others have had."

"Social intercourse," Sara teased. "Conversation, Grissom. You needn't use a five-dollar term when a nickel one with do; not with me. And I beg your forgiveness for my unkind teasing, but I assumed you knew that Mrs. Pearson has taken a fancy to you."

Startled again, Grissom drew his brows together. "A fancy to me? I cannot imagine why. I'm hardly of interest for a woman of her demeanor, and surely her prospects are better suited in finding a match more along her somewhat . . . authoritarian lines."

Sara laughed aloud; authoritarian fit Martha Pearson very well. Zeus pulled the buckboard up towards the house, turning instinctively, and ambled to a stop before the porch. Grissom motioned to Sara to switch places with him, and then gently clucked at his hackney, guiding the big horse around the side of the house to the back yard. Sara noted a neglected garden lined with rock just off the back porch, and an empty chicken yard.

Grissom steered Zeus further on, to a clearing beyond the house. Sara climbed off the wagon, not waiting for Grissom's helping hand, and began to undo the back as Grissom took Zeus out of the harness and led him to the paddock by the barn. When he returned, he laughed.

She'd used all her might, pushing hard, but Sara had not managed to budge the heavy crate a single inch towards the back edge of the wagon. Grissom looked up at her straining hard, her shoulder against one corner. "What are you doing, pray tell?"

"Attempting to get this Stratohoopwondermeyer off the wagon, I should think that was obvious," Sara grumbled, annoyed at her lack of success. Grissom gave her a patient look.

"I think we shall be better off unpacking it where it sits, good woman." So saying he produced a crowbar; this time Sara scowled, rising up and rubbing her shoulder.

"That's . . . cheating," she protested, not quite ready to admit the sensibility of his idea. Grissom arched an eyebrow at her, and Sara felt the turn of the tide, teasing-wise in his look.

"It's prudent and practical for our purposes, Miss Sidle. You don't weigh enough to move a curtain, let alone a crate."

Sara protested, half in annoyance, half in an odd sense of modesty. "I'm stronger than I look, and I HAVE moved curtains."

Grissom had climbed up on the wagon and was busily working the sharp end of the crowbar into the gap along the top of the crate, jabbing the tool firmly as he replied, "I beg your pardon-I'm sure you're a champion curtain-mover, shoving aside those drapes with aplomb."

"Now you're just mocking me, sir-" Sara snapped back, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and feeling exasperated. Grissom shook his head and pulled down on the crowbar; the crate gave a squeal and the wooden lid began to rise as the nails pulled away from the edges of the crate.

"Not at all-I appreciate your enthusiasm," he grunted, pulling the crowbar out and reinserting it further down the edge of the crate. "No major endeavor was ever achieved without it."

Sara felt he was getting back at her for the remarks about Mrs. Pearson, and fumed inwardly, but Grissom flashed her a quick grin, and she found she couldn't hold much of a grudge against that. Carefully they managed to pry off the lid of the crate and pull it off; Grissom gave it a heave to let it drop over the side of the wagon. Mounds of piney excelsior filled the crate, as Sara peeked into it.

"It looks like a giant hen box," she observed.

Grissom looked slightly amused. "The only egg I expect to find in this one is the Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer's Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship." He balanced himself of the upper edge of the wagon and leaned in, fishing out handfuls of the curly packing shavings and dug through them, reminding Sara of a gopher. She mirrored him on the other side, bending in and fishing around in the crate.

"I've found . . . something," Grissom announced, coughing a little. "From the feel of it, I believe it's the edge of the gondola."

"Ah! well if we can dig out more of this fluff . . . " Sara assured him, burrowing more deeply and looking in danger of toppling all the way in. The image of her firm little posterior bent over the edge of the crate was enough to insure a guilty but thorough glance from Grissom. He wished he could blame his sudden lack of manners on the rough society of the West but he knew himself better than that. His own rebellious body was to blame and this late rise of baser interest was both mortifying and inevitable around Miss Sara.

Grissom understood the biology of attraction-indeed, the entire cycle of the moth revolved around it-but the facts of life where an entirely different matter when applied on a far more personal level. Grissom turned his attention back to the fluff and began scooping armfuls out again, tossing them to the breeze.

Gradually between them they managed to uncover the gleaming wicker basket of the balloon gondola. Sara admired the craftsmanship of the piece; the cunningly woven slats and wooden pegs. Grissom strained, and managed to lift it up enough so that with Sara's help he was able to pull it free of the crate. They carefully carried it off the wagon and set it down on the scrubby grass, looking it over carefully. Sara stroked the glossy rattan side with light fingers.

"Beautiful workmanship here-whatever else you've got in that crate, Grissom, this is definitely a prize."

"I agree," he murmured, walking around it and noting the cunningly woven tether holes under the handrail grip around the top. "I'm sure it's genuine willow, dried and molded to fit. It looks big enough for me."

"And me," Sara added, shooting Grissom a sharp look as he moved to protest. "Certainly you don't think you're going up alone in it, do you?"

"I HAD considered it-but it's dangerous, Sara, and certainly not the sort of enterprise I would have thought you interested in," he argued, feebly. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that Miss Sara Sidle was no shrinking violet, and even before he'd ordered the balloon Grissom had suspected she'd want to be part of the ascent as well as the assembly.

Sara lifted her chin. "It will make a marvelous story for Franklin and you KNOW it, Professor Grissom. And please don't give me that tired old lecture about the fairer sex and the weaker half, please. I'm perfectly capable of holding my own at heights."

Grissom stared at her determined expression, noting the loose curls of pine shavings in her hair, her pert nose and severe glare.

Carefully he reached over and plucked a strand of excelsior, flicking it away. He drew in a deep breath, the sound both amused and resigned. "You, Miss Sara Sidle, are capable of holding your own against any number of things. I have no doubt that had you been at Lexington and Concord you could have held the British off all on your own. In fact-" warming to his comparison, he smiled, "-putting it closer to our own decade, I doubt the South of our nation would have even gotten the CHANCE to attempt secession had you been in Congress at the right time."


	8. Chapter 8

Sara stared back at him, and gradually a smile spread over her face in gentle response to the teasing admiration in his voice. She cleared her throat a little. "Yes, well occasionally men do need a woman to move them along the right path. So . . . what do we do next to get aloft, dear professor?"

Grissom felt a glad pang at those last two words, spoken so absently and yet so sweetly. He gestured to the front of the buckboard, where the stack of instructions sat on the bench seat. "Let's consult the missive and see what Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer considers to be the next step then."

Sara scooped up the manuscript and carefully skimmed through it as Grissom absently brushed pine shavings from his vest front. He came to a decision and took off his coat, laying it on the seat next to her; Sara pretended not to notice as he undid his cuff buttons and began to roll up his sleeves.

"Foremost, remove items and components from the shipping crate, taking care to lay them out in an orderly fashion," she intoned aloud. "The enclosed diagram should be your guide . . . "

After nearly an hour of careful work, the grassy ground next to the buckboard matched the instructional drawing perfectly. Sara waited until Grissom had pushed the wagon aside (an action that she admired greatly, although she said nothing aloud to distract him) and then settled herself on the edge of the layout. "Are we ready to assemble?"

Grissom eyed the pieces thoughtfully and gave a curt nod. "Slowly and line by line, then. This doesn't appear terribly complicated."

They worked in tandem. Assembling the rigging for the gondola was in fact fairly easy, but laying out the big balloon itself took most of the time and yards of space. Sara studied the oiled silk curiously. "Grissom?"

"Yes?"

"Your balloon has writing on it."

Frowning, Grissom studied the section of balloon Sara pointed out to him and realized she was correct. He shifted a fold and sighed. "Advertising. It seems Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer certainly knows full well every trick on how to get his name into the public eye. Ah well."

They laid out the silk and came back to the wooden frame that held the bottom of the balloon up from the ground. Under the metal crossbar of the frame, a metal brazier hung, and Grissom studied it carefully. "So. We need to bellow the heat from the fire into the balloon. Once sufficient hot air has filled it, the envelope will rise, and this brazier will hang under it, but above us in the gondola. It's an ingenious design, really. More heat will make the balloon rise higher, and less will allow it to gradually descend. Are the sand buckets filled yet?"

Sara carried two over to the gondola and attached them to the small hooks on the inside of the basket corners. Grissom nodded and carefully lit the brazier. After a short while the blaze grew, and he picked up a hand-sized leather and wood bellows. He grinned. "And now, inflation!"

It took time, but gradually the hot air so carefully redirected by Grissom began to fill the balloon. It rose up with dignified slowness, lifting from the grass and rounding out; Sara marveled at the beautiful green and white silk. Once expanded, it was easy to see the advertisement on the side of the envelope, and she laughed at the beautiful script that spelled out _Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer's Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship_ in rich black letters against the green and white balloon.

Once fully up, though the balloon rose swiftly, tugging the brazier along as it lifted. The ropes looped into the leather straps on the underside of the balloon creaked a bit, and Grissom cast an anxious glance at the tether pegs that held the gondola down.

Sara shook her head. "Oh no-in for a penny, in for a pound. I'm NOT going to be left behind!" So saying, she scurried to the gondola, tugged the leather straps that held the little door shut. Swiftly she stepped into the basket. It was already hovering several inches above the ground now, unaffected by Sara's weight. Grissom gritted his teeth. Carefully he scooped up his frock coat and climbed into the basket himself, strapping the door closed behind him. The willow rattan creaked a little, and the space was very close; he felt Sara's skirts brush him as he reached up for the brazier.

"All right then. Let me check the heat, and then we can cast off the lines. This may be a precarious venture-" he warned, but Sara settled herself into a corner of the gondola, her hands already on one of the tethers. She stood there, keeping her balance in the basket, waiting for instructions.

With a pang Grissom noted how pretty she looked, and knew if he dared comment on it, she would either blush and deny it, or question his judgment. And yet she WAS pretty, with her hair coming loose from its bun, and her cheeks pink with excitement. There was a glitter in her dark eyes; a hint of delight and mischievousness that made the pang within him shift from his chest to lower extremities. Grissom nodded to her, then moved to untie the line closest to himself.

For a moment the gondola tilted-they'd untied lines on the same side-but with some shifting and quick work, the other two lines were undone, and majestically the balloon rose up into the air. Sara laughed giddily. Down below them in the paddock, Zeus and Bessie were looking alarmed, both gazing upward at the spectacle. Sara leaned over and called down to the two beasts. "We're all right, Zeus, Bessie-just taking a little trip!"

Bessie lumbered off towards the barn; Zeus circled the fence line uneasily. Sara shifted her gaze to Grissom, who was busy feeding a few hunks of wood into the brazier. He looked over at her, and the boyish grin on his face lit it up in a way that sent a happy surge down her spine. Quickly she turned away.

"We're nearly twenty feet up now, and rising," Grissom commented with satisfaction.

"Oh!" Came Sara's annoyed cry. "Your cow is eating my HAT!"

"What?" Grissom moved to the same side of the gondola as Sara, and once more, the basket dipped with an alarming lurch. Instinctively he looped an arm around her waist and tugged her back with him to the center of the gondola, his free hand locked on one of the main ropes to the balloon. For a long moment, they stood pressed together face to face, close enough to share breath as the balloon rose higher in the mid-afternoon sky. Sara felt herself wheezing slightly, more out of surprise than fear; the comforting strength of Grissom's arm around her felt both secure and thrilling.

"I apologize, Sara," he spoke rapidly, his voice strained. "First of all Bessie IS overly fond of straw, and had I known you had left your hat on the fencepost I would have moved it. Secondly, we need to redistribute the sand buckets on the gondola so we can approach any side of the basket in tandem."

Sara nodded, still caught up in the nearness of the man; the warm masculine scent of him, the pressure of his arm around her waist. She noted how loose his cravat was, and how the afternoon light glittered over the whiskers along his jaw line.

How entrancingly blue his eyes were.

"Agreed," she quavered back. "The hat-that's nothing, really, but I would like to be able to look over the side without risk to life and limb. However, I don't think it's the sand-I believe the ropes connecting the gondola to the balloon itself are uneven in length."

Grissom turned his head and checked her observation; vexed, he nodded. "You're right-the basket is hanging unevenly. We can remedy that once we've landed, but for now I think we'll have to stay on the high side."

Gingerly Sara tried to release her grip on his lapels, but Grissom shook his head and instead, extended his arm to grip the basket edge on the higher side. Shuffling, the two of them moved over together, and the panorama below them was distracting enough to make them both relax a bit.

"Ohh, there's the railroad line!" Sara pointed out eagerly.

Grissom nodded, and motioned with his chin. "We're approaching Green Meadows itself, actually. I predict we should be crossing the main thoroughfare in about fifteen minutes at this rate."

Sara nodded, her gaze still caught up in the shifting landscape below, and Grissom furtively studied her once more, letting himself catalog her many charms. Up close, he noted the clear porcelain of her complexion; still pale but a flush along her cheekbones, right where he longed most to touch it with his lips. Her lashes were dark and full, and her merry expression made it clear she was fearless in this venture.

Yet she still clung to him, and his gratitude for that was immeasurable.

Carefully he kept his arm about her and cleared his throat. "We are still rising-now we're nearly thirty feet up."

"Yes. I bet we'll be able to peer right into Pastor David's belfry at this rate!" Sara replied with a grin. "Think we ought to wave to Misters Hennessy and O'Shay as we pass by?"

Grissom grinned. "Why not?"

They did precisely that ten minutes later as the _Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship_ sailed majestically over the roof of the Green Meadow train depot. Below them the freightmen stared up in astonishment and the oldest, Hennessy, let out a joyous whoop as he waved his battered top hat. "Oh great saints and begorrah, Professor! You've gone and DONE it, man!"

"God and all his sainted angels in heaven!" One of the others cried out, his grimy upturned face a study in surprise. Sara wished she had something to drop into his open mouth-a peanut perhaps.

Grissom chuckled. "That I have, Mr. Hennessey-with your help, and Miss Sidle's here of course."

"Of course! And where might the two of you be headed, sir?" Hennessey asked, cupping his callused hands around his mouth to call up to them.

"We haven't the faintest idea-" Sara replied as the balloon moved on.

To Sara's frustration, they didn't pass close enough to the first Methodist church of Green Meadows to see into the bell tower, but they did succeed in startling several of the horses tied up outside of the Emporium and across the thoroughfare over at Warrick's Livery. People gawked and waved; the Ecklie brothers raced forward and back, calling up to the two of them in a breathless duet of voices.

"Miss Sara! Professor! Golly, Why didn't you-"

"-Come get US? Say you'll give us a ride-"

"-The next time you go up?"

Grissom fished in his vest pocket and found a five dollar piece. He pitched it down to Josiah, who caught it neatly in a grubby hand. "Take that to Mr. Hodges at the Emporium and tell him that Miss Sara needs a new straw boater. You and your brother keep the change," he ordered gently. The boy nodded and sped off, followed by Jonathon.

"Professor!" Sara squawked softly, still very aware of his hand pressed to her lower back. He didn't look at her, but kept his gaze on the two boys running across the flat, dusty road.

"I owe you a hat . . . and much more. But a hat is a good start."

"Yes . . . well . . . ." she spluttered a bit and sighed. "They'll spend the excess on horehound and nougat-you KNOW that."

"I doubt Hodges will sell them much, not when Mrs. Ecklie is within walking distance. Speaking of distance-" Grissom looked towards the roof of the Willow Branch Saloon, which loomed ahead of them, "We may have some trouble ahead."

Sara looked and nodded. The facade was high and ornate, the curlicues of the main sign pointy in the sunlight, and from the look of it, the gondola would just barely clear them. "Uhhh, yes, this could be a problem."

"What would Serenity Thorncraft do?" Grissom murmured, and Sara flinched a little. But his attention was on the brazier, and the low flame within it. "I wish I'd thought to bring more kindling-"

"Or a pushpole, like rivermen use with barges," Sara sighed.

They drew closer but at the last minute, an errant gust moved them around the corner of the sign, along the side of the Willow Branch. Unfortunately, it meant gliding past the open window of one of the upstairs rooms, and the unmistakable sounds of interpersonal intimacy drifted out through the lacy curtains, accompanied by an enthusiastic rhythmic creaking of bedsprings.

Sara felt her face flush, hot and red. She unsuccessfully fought a gasp. Beside her, Grissom flinched a bit and looked desperately for a distraction, his own embarrassment as deep. He cleared his throat.

"I haven't thought of a way to make it go down," he told her, and then winced at the unintended innuendo of his words. Sara bit her lips to hold back her giggles. It would never do to hint that she had a fairly good idea of what was going on in the upstairs rooms of The Willow Branch, oh dear no. She turned and faced the brazier, blowing little puffs of air on the low embers there, finding relief in the useless occupation. Within a few seconds, Grissom had joined her, his puffing deeper than her own.

Mercifully, the balloon drifted on, rounding the corner and fast approaching the tall Ponderosa pine tree a few yards off the northeastern side of the Saloon. Sara eyed the malicious looking branches uneasily, all too aware of their puncture potential. "Grissom?"

"Oh, yes, I see the issue-" he nodded, "But perhaps we can use it to our advantage-" So saying, Grissom reached for one of the trailing tether ropes and fashioned a quick loop at the end of it. He tossed it in an attempt to hook one of the branches and missed on the first throw. Carefully pulling it in, he tried once more with no more success. Sara held out her hands and he passed her the rope, watching with mild annoyance as she hooked one of the large branches on the first toss.

"Well done," he acknowledged wryly. Sara looked back at him and her dimples deepened.

"Talents of a wayward girlhood," she admitted. At that honest remark, Grissom found himself smiling as well. Together they pulled on the rope and managed to bring the balloon close to a main fork of the pine. Grissom leaned over and tied the tether in a firm half-hitch, then eyed the branch carefully.

"Let me climb down and then toss me one of the other lines and I'll draw you and the balloon to the ground," he suggested. Sara nodded, and held onto the edge of the gondola as Grissom swung one leg over and reached for the Ponderosa.

It was trickier than it looked, and he wobbled a bit, his boots not exactly designed for climbing trees, but with care Grissom managed to transfer himself close in to the main trunk. He clambered down, shimmying a bit, losing some skin on one wrist, and smearing pinesap along the side of his vest, but within a few minutes he'd reached the ground and turned his face up to Sara, his smile delighted.

"Success. Toss me a rope, please."

She did, letting the line drop down, but the end of it dangled temptingly about a foot higher than Grissom's outstretched fingers.

At that point the Ecklie boys came at full speed, rounding the corner of the saloon and nearly running into Grissom himself in their haste. The professor wasted no time.

"Josiah, come here-" he ordered.

The boy did, and giggled in comprehension. Moving quickly, he kicked off his shoes and stepped into Grissom's laced fingers, holding on to the man's shoulder as Grissom lifted him up. It was enough added height, and Josiah snagged the rope as Sara above him laughed. Jonathon cheered.

"Nicely done!"

Together the three of them-Grissom and the two boys-tugged on the rope, pulling the gondola downward. Unfortunately, the basket snagged on the Ponderosa, tipping precariously, and Sara gave a little whoop of surprise, clinging to the edge tightly. Below, Grissom barked, "Boys, easy!"

"Yessir!" they chimed, and Sara reached out for a branch, pulling herself and the gondola closer. Grissom looked up at her anxiously. She tossed down another mooring line and the twins darted over to grab that one together.

"You need to push *away* from the tree, not draw closer!" Grissom called up.

"I'm climbing down-" Sara announced and added, "close your eyes."

"What?" Startled Grissom looked up in time to catch a flounce of petticoat and the deliciously unexpected sight of one leg, sleek in lace cotton stocking and high-button boot swinging over the side of the gondola. Since it was on the other side, and away from the Ecklie twins, he was the only one to see it, but it was nearly enough to make Grissom lose his grip on the rope.

Then came the flurry of skirt and scrape of heels along the branches; another laughing gasp or two from Sara, and she was nearly down, only a foot or so over Grissom's shoulder. He reached up one hand to her and she took it. With a graceful hop, Sara landed on the ground, guided by Grissom's strong grip. She beamed, smoothing her skirt down with her free hand, and Grissom blinked, looking at her with a sudden rush of feeling so strong it left him slightly giddy.

Her fingers tightened on his.

"You're champion, Miss Sara!" Josiah announced, beaming at her, "You didn't scream or anything!"

"There was nothing to be afraid of-the professor was right there," she replied with such confidence that Grissom felt a second swell deep within him. He cleared his throat and spoke, his tone mild.

"No, the boy's right, Sara; you definitely have courage. Not many women would do what you do with equal grace and fortitude. It was an honor to have you along on the maiden voyage of the balloon."

For a moment they stared at each other with clear, bright eyes, and then-

"Heellllpppppp!" Jonathon called as a breeze caught the balloon and shifted it out of the Ponderosa, dragging him along under it like a piece of bait on a fishing line. With a whoop, Josiah ran to latch onto his brother, while Sara and Grissom broke hands and each grabbed for the other mooring line. Sara laughed, bracing her slim weight against the balloon.

"I do believe your next purchase from the Roebuck catalog should be for anchors, Professor Grissom-"

"Agreed!"


	9. Chapter 9

He didn't drink often. For one thing, it didn't make him merry, and for another he didn't care to waste his wages on something so transient. Greg knew just how bad empty pockets could get, and the contrast was all the sharper for his never having wanted for a thing before he'd found nothing but lint in his.

But every once in a while-maybe every two or three months-something brought the memories back, and he felt the need for a little liquid anesthesia. So he would choose a bottle from the bar, and without words he would take it back into the kitchen, laying the coins to pay for it with solemn ritual on one of the long counters. Miss Jacquie would give him an equally solemn nod, usually with an editorial scowl attached, but she never said a word either. Of course, all she would do was scoop up the money and put it right into the till that was in his care, and Miz Catherine trusted him-he didn't have to prove that he was paying for his booze.

Except, he did. He had to prove it to himself.

This time Greg felt the melancholy creeping up on him on an early-summer evening. He hid it underneath his usual patter of jokes and grins; part of what the Willow Branch's patrons paid for was the quick wit and sympathetic ear of a good bartender, and that was what Miz Willows paid him for too. It was habit enough to pour out the drinks and collect the money and laugh at the same tired, comfortable jests; keeping an eye on the heavy drinkers took a bit more thought, but the evening was fairly quiet in the scheme of things.

When the last call was over and things were tidied a little-one of Miz Catherine's rules was that most cleanups could wait for morning and better light-Greg made his selection from the rows of gleaming bottles. The variety was poor compared to what he'd seen in many a hotel bar, or even his father's own cellar, but when it was numbness he needed the quality didn't matter so much.

Still, he chose a bottle of the better whiskey the saloon had to offer. Just because he'd come down in the world didn't mean he'd developed a taste for rotgut.

Jacquie wasn't in the kitchen when he passed through, though the sink full of bubbles told him she hadn't gone far. Greg stacked his coins next to the drain board where she'd be sure to see them, a whimsical little tower of silver, and headed out through the back door. His room above was breathless with the sudden heat of the week, and besides he knew he had a better than even chance of getting maudlin. The walls of the Willow Branch were thin, and his pride wouldn't let either of the ladies hear him cry.

He found a soft spot in the weedy grass out behind the storage shed, looking out into the desert, and sat back to numb his woes. The stars were thick overhead like diamond dust on deep, deep velvet, and Greg saluted them with the bottle before he took the first fiery pull. The stars were cool, silent, and beautiful. They never disapproved.

With each swallow, the old burning pain lessened. His father's contempt faded; his mother's weeping hushed; the humiliation and anger smoothed away. It was only a temporary solution, Greg knew that, but from time to time it was a blessed one.

Eventually his anger blurred into a sort of dizzy not-caring. The stars spun overhead in a stately pinwheel, a dance just for him, and Greg lay back in the cool air and sighed. With glacial slowness the thought occurred to him that he really ought to go back to his room, but even though the bottle still sloshed in his grip he didn't think he was up to climbing stairs.

Besides, his room would still be stuffy and . . . empty. Greg was struck with a sudden sense of deep, deep loneliness. The stars were there, but they were so far away.

Well, he was a smart young man, everyone said so. He could find congenial company if he put his mind to it.

Greg got gradually to his feet, somehow managing to not drop his bottle. Now the world spun slowly as the stars had, not quite as nice but not fast enough to push him over. Company . . . he wanted company.

Fixing that goal as firmly as his pickled brain could grasp, Greg staggered off to accomplish it.

He woke warm, if not entirely comfortable; something was prickling at the back of his neck. There was a sour taste in his mouth, and his head hurt a little, but when it came to alcohol Greg had neither the blessing of amnesia nor the curse of a hangover; he remembered the night before quite well, and he knew he'd be fine with a quick bathe and a fresh shirt.

In a little while, he told himself, not opening his eyes just yet. He was reclining on something reasonably soft, and there were solid spots of warmth all up and down his body-nestled between his arms and his sides, cozied up to his legs, even resting lightly on his stomach. He wasn't ready to move.

But before long he heard the creak of a wire hinge, and then shuffling footsteps; the warmth on his stomach stirred, and a soft chorus of sleepy peeps and chirrs filled the air. Greg opened one eye to see Jacquie looming over him, the willow basket over one arm and the crown of her head almost touching the roof of the chicken house.

"Good thing for you that the run was cleaned yesterday," she said sardonically.

Greg let the other eye open, agreeing with her silently though he wasn't about to admit it. The hens cuddled in around him knew perfectly well that Jacquie had no food for them, and so were not inclined to move, and to be frank neither was he. "Good morning to you too," he said, yawning.

Jacquie gave him the personal glare that was their shorthand for a good scolding, and he gave her the mock-penitent look that was his response. The ritual out of the way, she bent to slide her hand under the nearest hen. "I feel like I should be checking for an egg or two under your tailbone as well."

Greg snickered. "A fruitless endeavor, my dear delightful cook. Besides, I might take it personally."

She snorted without offense at his flirting, as she always did, and moved around him to check the other birds. "Does that make you the cock of the walk?"

He had to grin at that; few people knew that under Jacquie's gruff exterior hid an extremely naughty mind that usually only came out to play when Miz Catherine passed around the Christmas punch. Idly he wondered if Doc Robbins had any idea. "What can I say?" Greg glanced down at his left armpit, which held an assortment of downy balls of black-eyed fluff. "Chicks love me."

Sara wasn't quite sure how it happened, but somehow it seemed that nearly half her days in Green Meadows weren't spent in the town itself, but outside it-visiting Professor Grissom. It really wasn't proper, especially since they so rarely had anyone approaching a chaperon. But attitudes in the West were more relaxed, and no one seemed to look at Sara askance, though Mrs. Ecklie had clucked a little after Sunday services once. Sara wasn't sure if the lack of alarm was due to the fact that she was beyond girlhood, or by the perception of the Professor as a gentleman and a confirmed bachelor, but she wasn't going to argue. The man was a fount of information about the area and its wildlife and peoples, and gave her almost more ideas than she needed for her articles.

And, she had to admit, she purely enjoyed his company. Half the time they weren't even at his home-they were off exploring the countryside, with Grissom hunting entomological specimens and Sara getting a feel for Nevada Territory. Her nose burned a little, but then her skin started to adjust despite her hats and gloves and cucumber lotion, taking on a faint golden sheen that she admitted privately wasn't unattractive. And her lungs improved markedly, the dryer, cleaner air letting them expand. Her cough faded and the tight band that so often restricted her breathing relaxed.

Sometimes Sara felt a little guilty about taking up so much of the Professor's time, but he didn't seem to mind, never failing to invite her back for another trip or luncheon. And unlike many males of her acquaintance, even purported gentlemen, he was the soul of courtesy, always respectful even when there was no other human for miles.

She liked him a great deal.

So much, in fact, that at times it troubled her slightly. She had always been ambitious, a blessing for a man but often a curse for a woman, and she had left behind dreams of a husband and babies upon entering her teens. Independence was her watchword, and with the determination that had both helped and hindered her, she had achieved it. Sara wasn't about to give up her freedom to what seemed to her to be the shackles of marriage, even if most women appeared content. She was far too happy with her life as it was.

So she soothed the small wistful pangs of liking by pointing out to herself that the Professor had no romantic interest in her at all-which was, Sara made herself believe, a relief. There were no courting overtures that had to be gently, or not so gently, rebuffed. Here at last was a man who appreciated her mind, granted her all the rights she felt herself entitled to, and had no intention of trying to put her into some gilded cage.

"It's the greatest," Josiah assured Sara solemnly. "Ever'body gets ready for weeks."

She nodded, as charmed by Josiah's shyness as by his twin's exuberance. She didn't see as much of him as she did Jonathon, but he was an equal, if quieter, font of information.

"It's not as big as Christmas," Jonathon corrected, swinging idly upside down from a low branch. The twins had decided that Sara was worthy of seeing their secret fishing spot, and had escorted her by a winding and brushy path to the shaded pool in the stream where they caught their best "swimmers". Sara, keeping a wary eye out for frogs and the like, had settled under the trees, praising the leafy dell with the appreciation of someone who'd grown up among siding and cobblestones.

"You can do more," Josiah countered without rancor. The twins often disputed each other, occasionally even arguing, but never once had Sara seen them engage in the brief furious tussles that had settled debates among other boys their age back in Saint Louis. After seeing them wrestle each other for fun, and Jonathon bloody another boy's nose when the child said something uncomplimentary about Mr. Brown, Sara concluded that their lack of fisticuffs with each other was an aspect of their twinning.

"There's races and games and just as much food as Christmas, and fireworks and a band," Josiah went on. "Me and Jon won the three-legged race two years in a row!"

"That's impressive," Sara said with sincerity, though it didn't surprise her. The twins were lithe and graceful and unselfconscious, and probably worked better together than just about anyone else in town.

She was looking forward to Independence Day. It was always a riotous event back East, with speeches and music and parades, and she was quite curious as to how it would be celebrated in such a small place. It would make at least one good article-perhaps two or three, depending.

"Mother makes Miss Judy leave the kitchen so she can make candy," Jonathon added. "There's lots of candy."

"Popcorn balls, taffy, treacle snaps, toffee," Josiah enumerated in a dreamy voice, obviously as taken by the vision of sweets as any other boy.

"An' watermelon, and sweet corn, and a whole hog spit-roasted!" Jonathon added, and Sara's enthusiasm vanished in a trice. She fought back a surge of nausea at the remembered stench of burning meat_. Perhaps I'll have to miss the picnic-_

After all, human flesh in a fire smelled just like roasting pork.

"That sounds good," she lied valiantly. "Though I can't imagine how you two manage to win any races after all that food!"

They giggled, and started telling her of past exploits, interrupting one another and taking up in the middle of each others' sentences. Sara unclenched her jaw and felt the sickness fade into memory, apparently undetected by her small companions. With an effort, she relaxed her shoulders and turned her full attention to their stories.

"So, can we fish?" she asked eventually. The boys had brought along two poles and what looked to be a small wooden box full of earth, but neither had made any move to unwrap the line from the poles.

They glanced at each other. "Fish don't bite much right now," Jonathon admitted. "They like dawn and evening better."

"But we might get one," Josiah ventured, and reached for the equipment. "You hafta put worms on the hooks, though."

Sara rather thought the twins were expecting her to balk, but for someone who had investigated flophouses and slaughterhouses, an earthworm was no challenge at all. Sparing a small wince for the moist invertebrate, she pinned it neatly on the hook-the only store-bought part of their equipage-and let Jonathon show her the best place to sink the line. Josiah busied himself with the other pole, and then they settled back in the dusty grass and the shade to wait for nibbles.

Sara was slightly surprised at Jonathon's ability to be still-it was the first time she'd seen him not in motion-but the hidden glade was peaceful and tolerably cool, and the water chuckled quietly as it ran past, and really, there was nothing to fret about. Not a thing.

She was halfway asleep when she felt the pole quiver against her side, and she sat up quickly, grabbing hold before it slid away. "I've got something!"

The twins burst into action, Jonathon shouting encouragement and advice and Josiah pulling down a couple of whippy branches from a nearby tree. As Sara struggled to land what felt like a sizeable fish, Josiah constructed a crude woven scoop from the branches, and leaned out to capture her prize as soon as it was close enough to the surface. It landed on the bank, shining and flopping, and Jonathon whooped and stabbed it neatly with the blade of his pocketknife, stilling it.

Sara stared down at the fat brook trout, not quite believing in it. "You done real good for a beginner, Miss Sidle," Josiah said, grinning at her, and she had to grin back, suddenly exhilarated.

Mrs. Hodges made no comment when Sara brought her the trout, strung neatly on a fresh willow branch, but there was enough to go 'round at supper, and it tasted delectable.


	10. Chapter 10

Nobody could say exactly when it started, but most agreed it had been during the week of the rattlesnake, give or take a day on either side.

Ronnie the stationmaster had taken his lunch on the steps of the depot, as usual, and had dropped his sliced salt pork and cabbage sandwich into the dust when a large, inquisitive rattlesnake had slid out from under the steps to flick a black ribbon tongue at him. A few people assumed Ronnie had been exaggerating the size of the snake, and had snickered unkindly when he'd shown up red-faced and out of breath at sheriff Brass's office demanding a posse to clear the monster from its lair, but that changed once the tracks in the dirt had been measured. Even Brass, who'd seen a fair share of desert creatures agreed that the size was impressive.

Ronnie offered a bounty for the snake, nicknamed by town scalawags as "The Depot Demon" and set the price at a twenty-dollar gold piece for it. Naturally this piqued fair interest, and the Ecklie boys were in the thick of it, plotting strategies that would have given their mother gray hair just to hear them. Warrick had suggested sending his dog under the steps in place of any person, but even his Rex. a seasoned veteran of rabbit chasing and squirrel hunts had whined and refused to go.

Naturally, this led to more gossip and conversation over at Hodge's Emporium where miners and farmers all at their own favored suggestions on how best to lure the rattler out. Sara had a wonderful time listening in on several of these as she helped fill a few long-standing orders while Mrs. Hodges lay down in the afternoon. Privately she felt sorry for the snake, who had done nothing aggressive or wrong, and she sensed that Grissom would probably agree with her.

One of the freightmen wanted to drive it out with a smudge smoke fire, but other townsmen pointed out that the train platform was all wood and that flames that close to any structure was generally a poor idea. Doc Robbins grumbled that leaving the creature alone would be the most sensible choice, but since there was no profit in that, nobody except Pastor David agreed with him.

Oddly, or perhaps not, it was Pastor David who succeeded in drawing out the Depot Demon. While people gathered, fussed, and offered suggestions, David quietly made his way to the far side of the platform, where the heat of the sun warmed the rocks, and calmly netted the big snake, who was coiled among the rocks and Saguaro there. The fishing net was strong, and with sheriff Brass as an escort, Pastor David had gone out into the old Indian burial grounds and released the big fellow (the snake, not the sheriff) into the rocky foothills. By the time the two men had returned, Hodges was doing brisk business in tonic for the newest passengers from the four twenty out of Arizona.

Grissom had been delivering milk to the Ecklies and Jacquie over at the Willow Branch; through the big front window of the Emporium, Sara caught a glimpse of Zeus good-naturedly towing the haycart down the center road. Grissom looked pre-occupied, and she wondered if he had heard the news about the snake yet. Then Mrs. Pearson had come in with an order for flour and grosgrain ribbon, and it took the better part of an hour to placate her. By then Grissom was gone, and Sara made a mental note to stop in and see him later in the week.

That night, Josiah Ecklie went to bed without complaining, which worried his mother. In the morning he was feverish and flushed; Doc Robbins looked him over and prescribed bed rest and willow bitters to bring his fever down. As he left the Ecklies, Robbins was intercepted by a messenger from Ortfried Brandauer requesting a house call. Robbins made arrangements with Warrick for use of Willy and the smallest wagon available since the Brandaur spread was three miles out of town.

When he returned, Robbins found three more messages waiting for him, and a sense of unease rose up as he looked over the notes. Diligently he worked late into the night, checking on the ill, writing out instructions and rationing out willow bitters. By the time the sun had come up, Jacquie had talked him into a few biscuits for breakfast and a long nap.

"A few more people are sick, but you won't do them any good if you wear yourself out over them," she scolded him lovingly. He understood her concern and agreed to stretch out for a while with a stern order to wake him if anyone took a turn for the worse.

That had been the first day. Over the next three, more cases came in, and when Doc Robbins made it back to Josiah Ecklie, the spots had broken out, red and thick, covering the poor boy from head to toe. "I've got itches, even in places not polite to scratch!" he fretted to Robbins, who gave him a mild glance of sympathy.

"You've got measles and you shouldn't scratch unless you want scars. I'll get your mother and Miss Judy to give you an oat bath; that'll help, but in the meantime, No scratching!"

Easier said than done, of course. Robbins relaxed a bit; Measles would bring Green Meadows to a bit of a standstill, but not many people died of them-only the older folks, and sometimes a toddler . . . . still, at least one man at Pearson's boarding house was running a dangerously high fever, and the railroad had been warned to pass by Green Meadows for the next week or so.

In the thick of it, the women of Green Meadows rose to the crisis calmly taking charge. Catherine Willows and Jacquie took turns dosing Greg Sanders with willow bark tea and eggnog; his case was mild and he enjoyed the attention. Martha Pearson had her hands full with three cases at her boarding house but kept them as confined and comfortable as she could. Hodges extended credit for nearly everyone, and doled out oats for bathing. When his missus lost her breakfast out in the back garden later in the week, though, he panicked and sent her to bed, coming to Sara to plead for help.

Sara did. She'd had measles herself as a young teenager, and remembered the misery of the illness quite well. However Mia Hodges had no fever, merely a little dizziness and a sense of embarrassment at her momentary loss of dignity. She protested that she was fine, and that there were too many chores that needed attention for her to spend the day in bed. Sara left the Hodges to work out their differences in privacy and stepped across the road to Warrick's Livery.

Warrick was there, watering the stock, looking healthy but a bit grim. One of the freightman was in a bad way in the shanties on the other side of the tracks, and nearly every farm had hands down with fevers. Consequently, the work had begun to pile up all over town. Laundry was undone, rubbish unhauled, goods and supplies undelivered. He looked up at her and his expression cheered for a moment as he nodded. "Miz Sidle . . . things okay at the Emporium?"

"We're all doing all right. How about this side of Main Street?" came her quick question. For a second she flexed her hands, wishing she'd brought her notebook with her, but then chided herself; time enough to write the story up after people recovered. Warrick finished pumping and hooked one of the buckets to the brace across his shoulders.

"Josiah's better, Jonathon's coming down with it. Most of the freightmen are out today, but only one of them is really bad off. The sheriff's been patrolling to make sure everyone with property in town are protected from robbers." he began to lift the buckets, and Sara helped him get his balance. She knew better than to offer to help; nevertheless she followed him and pulled open the door to the barn.

"So far no one's died and that's something to be thankful for," she commented gently. Warrick set the buckets down and unhooked them. Efficiently he poured one then the other into the big trough running down the center of the barn and watched as the horses came forward to drink.

"We haven't heard from everyone. I don't think anyone's seen Professor Grissom since his last milk delivery," Warrick grunted. "I'd go out if I had the time, but being short-handed like this . . . "

"I'll go," Sara blurted, then drew in a breath as her anxiety traded placed with her embarrassment. "I mean, it would be prudent to check in, just for peace of mind . . . "

Warrick re-shouldered the bucket brace and nodded. "Yes it would. I know both the sheriff and Doc Robbins would appreciate it, and I can fix you up with Willie. That one needs the exercise," he added with an exasperated little snort. "Too many oats and not enough trot. When do you plan to go?"

Sara thought quickly. "I've promised Martha Pearson to help her with the laundry most of this morning, so if we can hang it all by noon I'll leave after then."

"Good. I'll tell the Doc and he can make up a bundle of medicines to take with you. Grissom might be just fine, but if he's not—" Warrick sighed, "-then you'll probably need to get his fever down and make sure he doesn't do anything foolish."

"Foolish?" Sara asked curiously. Warrick sighed and headed back to the pump outside while she followed him once more.

"Miss, I've seen men out of their heads with fever, and sometimes it's a curse. Most are too weak to stand, but now and then you get a stubborn one who'll try to keep going. The professor now, he knows he's the only one out at his place, and he'll feel responsible to those animals of his."

Sara thought of Zeus and Bessie, and nodded. "You're right-so . . . let me get on with Mrs. Pearson's laundry and I'll be back as quick as I can. Will you see Doc Robbins before noon?"

Warrick nodded, working the big metal handle of the pump. "He's been needing a ride to reach the Brauns and the Brandaurs, so he'll be in sometime this morning. I'll have Willie ready to go for you when you get back. And Miss Sara?"

She looked at him; Warrick gave her a tired but sincere smile. "Thanks. From me and others-Green Meadow may not be big as St. Louis, but we care about each other here."

Sara nodded, and felt a warmth deep in her stomach; a glow of shy pride at being included in that last statement. Still marveling at that, she quickly made her way across the road to Martha Pearson's boarding house and knocked just under the Quarantine sign.

The laundry took most of the morning, and Sara hated it, even when she knew it was necessary. There were five beds at Pearson's along with the washing up for the tenants, who paid for the service in their rent. Martha Pearson usually had her two maids, Sadie and Juana to handle the load, but Sadie had been borrowed by Doc Robbins to help him out on his rounds, and Juana was home nursing her little girl. By the time Sara and Martha Pearson had strung up the last workshirt and cotton sheet on the twine lines strung out back the sun was high and Sara was soaked and exhausted. The only recompense was the warm smile from the proprietress.

"City-bred you may be, Miss Sidle, but it's clear you aren't afraid of hard work. I'm positively grateful for you help today, and that's a fact," Martha murmured, wiping a straggle of iron-grey hair back from her forehead. In her faded apron and brown calico workday dress she seemed less imposing and more human; Sara admired her snapping green eyes.

"Thank you . . . although I must return the compliment. I had no idea there was so much physical labor to running a business like this."

The other woman laughed, her rough red hands on her hips. "Oh yes, keeps me up from dawn to sunset, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Where else do I have the final word in the lives of young, wet-behind-the-ears scalawags, eh?"

Sara smiled, remembering earlier when Martha Pearson had moved from room to room, cajoling and nursing her tenants, bossing this one and coddling that one. Her tenants were loyal to her, albeit in the shy and sometimes argumentative ways some single men had, and all of them followed her directives.

"Sometimes it's good to be the queen."

"It's always good. Now I've got some broth to simmer and bread to bake; I'd be honored to put some by you if you have a moment to spare."

Thinking of Grissom, Sara nodded. Broth would do him good, sick or not, and a chance to dry out a little before leaving was a sound idea as well. she accompanied Martha Pearson to the kitchen of the boarding house. An hour later Sara left with a crock jug of steaming broth and a warm brown bread loaf wrapped in a towel.

Warrick was good as his word and had Willie harnessed by the time she crossed the road. He handed her a wicker basket covered in cloth. "From Doc Robbins-he says he's written the instructions on the bottle." Warrick helped her up to the seat and handed her the reigns. "Send Willie home if you run into trouble-he knows the way."

Sara nodded and directed the wagon over to the Emporium. Moving quickly, she found Hodges behind the counter, writing in his ledger. Quietly she spoke. "Mr. Hodges, I'm going out to Professor Grissom's place to check on him since nobody's seen him in a few days. I'd like to take a few supplies and will be glad to pay for them once I return."

Hodges looked up, his expression slightly troubled. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"There isn't anybody else to spare," Sara replied softly, "And I promised Mr. Warrick I'd send Willie back if there was a problem."

Hodges nodded. "You'll need cornmeal for mush, most likely and matches if he's let his fire go out, and probably a peck of oats, just like everyone else who's itching . . . and Miss Sara-" he motioned to her to come around the counter. When she did, Hodges fished out a burlap bag and set it down, opening it carefully. A gleaming revolver lay on the rude cloth. "Do you know how to handle a weapon?"

"Yes," Sara admitted in a tone that brooked no further questions. Hodges handed it to her, his voice low.

"I doubt you'll need it, but better prudent than not," he sighed. "We haven't had any trouble in years, nevertheless-"

When Sara rode out half an hour later she felt a new anxiety. All of the goods were bundled behind her in the wagon and the day was overcast, with a scent of rain on the wind. It wasn't unusual for showers in the spring, but Sara preferred not to be out driving in it. She hurried Willie along and kept an eye on the low-hanging clouds, hoping the sheets would be dried before the downpour started.


	11. Chapter 11

As she pulled up the rise towards the Watson place the only thing Sara heard was unnerving silence, and the fine hair on the back of her neck rose. Tense now, she urged Willie forward and brought the wagon between the barn and the house, then looked carefully around. The paddock was closed, and she could sense Bessie in the barn. A couple of jays taunted her from their position on the porch roof, but Sara ignored them as she picked up the supplies from the back of the wagon. She gave Willie a quick pat. "I'll be back in a few minutes, no matter what I find," Sara assured him gently. The horse whickered back at her, and swiveled his ears towards the house.

Sara mounted the steps and took a breath before reaching out for the front door. She rapped on it hard, willing the sound to carry through the house. The wood echoed under her knuckles and she wasn't aware she'd been holding her breath until a low weak tone came in reply.

"A . . . moment . . ."

Sara shifted, hearing slow footsteps moving to the door, and a hint of panic flared in her. She moved closer just as the door swung open, and nearly bumped into Grissom as he swayed, and gripped the doorframe in one hand to steady himself. This close she could feel the heat radiating from him.

He stood in shockingly casual dress, and Sara, who was used to seeing him in vest and coat was startled at his misbuttoned shirt and dangling suspenders. She noted he was in house slippers as well, and that neither his hair not his beard had been brushed. Grissom blinked at the sight of her, clearly not trusting his vision. "Sara?"

"Grissom, you're sick."

He made no reply, standing there and staring at her with the glassy gaze of fever. She looked him over carefully and thought hard. Gently, Sara spoke again. "Grissom you need to go to bed. I'll take care of Bessie and Zeus, but you need to go and rest."

He swayed a little and then made a slow nod, swallowing a little; she watched his Adam's apple bob at his open collar, and the sight of his exposed throat sent hot little pangs through her. To fight off the confusion, Sara stepped closer and took Grissom's arm. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Yes dear," he replied hollowly. Sara stared at him; Grissom managed a weak smile, and staggered a bit. She set the supplies down on the hall table, slipped his arm over her shoulder and let him lean on her for support. It felt both frightening and wonderful to have his warmth and weight against her, and Sara took a breath to get her thoughts straight.

"Lean on me," she ordered huskily, "are you hungry?"

"No dear," Grissom replied again in a monotone. He obediently clung to her and they headed for the staircase, mounting them together in slow tandem. It dawned on Sara that this was the first time she'd ever been up them before, and that the entire second floor of the Watson place was a mystery to her. They took a few more steps up, the wood creaking under their feet.

"Take your time," Sara told him gently. Grissom's heat radiated through his shirt and against her shoulder. Gradually they reached the landing, and once there, Sara reached over to brush a hand against his forehead, wincing at the sear of it. He blinked again at her.

"Sara," he croaked, surprised again apparently at the sight of her. "Sara is biblical, and means princess. You are a princess then." Grissom paused and added, "A dear princess."

"Thank you," Sara replied, alarmed and amused at his delirium. "Where is your bedroom Grissom?"

"The princess takes me to bed," he murmured, a smile flickering across his face. "Sara?"

"Yes Grissom," she sighed, looking around the landing. There was a short hallway here and three doors, all of which were shut. "Which. Room?" she asked again, slowly. Grissom shook his head and coughed, then weakly gestured to the farthest door, the one at the end of the hall.

"There."

They moved down the carpeted hallway, and Sara noted a few more framed insects here, lesser specimens of damselflies and mayflies, and one ornately framed certificate that she recognized as his doctorate diploma. Sara smiled to herself, admiring the modesty of a man who would hang it away from his desk and the eyes of his visitors. Then she reached for the glass knob and opened the door.

It was a spacious room, and done up in a Spartan, somewhat stogy fashion, leaning heavily on function over decor, but comfortable looking just the same. A spool bed with a slightly rumpled Tree of Life quilt over the top of it. Sara stopped, startled at such a lovely piece of work. The rich pieces of calico in different prints blended beautifully, and along the edges of the tree were little insects . . .

Then Grissom groaned a little, and Sara turned her attention back to him. She helped in to sit on the bed and carefully caught his face in her hands. The softness of his beard nearly made her stammer, but she spoke to him, trying to hold his gaze. "I have to go unhitch Willie. I'm coming back in a few minutes, Grissom and I need you to get into bed. Can you get into bed?"

"Can get into bed," he nodded gently, his eyes closed. For a second he tilted his head to lean his cheek into her hand, and his small smile worried her as much as pleased her. Reluctantly she let go of him, then looked down at Grissom's boots. She knelt and took one in her hands, giving it a yank. It came off, and she reached for the other, doing the same action, then tucked them both under the bed next to the porcelain chamber pot.

"Bed," she repeated. He nodded again, his eyes closed.

It took a while to unharness Willie, but he was patient with her. Sara unlatched the barn door and both Zeus and Bessie eyed her as she walked in. Sara noted that both animals looked fine, and that they seemed eager to be turned out, so she led them each to the paddock and took a moment to work the trough pump for them. Willie joined them, flicking his tail and nosing around the hay crib at the far end. Sara washed her hands at the pump and checked the paddock latch. The barn was open, so if it rained they'd be able to wander back in. Satisfied, she turned back to the house. As she climbed the steps, Sara spotted a bucket of milk on the porch and realized Grissom must have left it there. It already sour and had a few flies in it; regretfully she dumped it out over the railing. She took the bucket into the kitchen for scalding, bringing along the other supplies as well.

The kitchen was a bit of a mess. There were dishes left out, and a rock hard half a loaf of bread on the counter. The room was cold too, and Sara relit the stove, grateful that Hodges had pressed matches on her. Once the kindling caught, she unpacked Mrs. Pearson's broth and set about warming it up.

The quiet was so noticeably different from town. Sara realized. She'd gotten used to the bustle outside her window at the Emporium; the sound of the train, or the wagons, the music from the Willow Branch late into the night. Here, she heard the creak of the weather vane and the low moan of the breeze over the hills, but not much else and she wondered how a city man like Grissom had adjusted to it.

The broth was beginning to boil, so she took it off the stove and poured part of it into one of the steins with the antler handles, then added a few slices of fresh bread next to it on a wooden tray. A quick peek through the pantry shelves and she had a small bit of butter and jam to go on them as well. Sara slipped Doc Robbins medicine bottle in her pocket, picked up the tray and headed up the steps to the second floor.

"Grissom, I'm coming in-" she announced loudly, hoping she hadn't just woken him up. Sara balanced the tray against one hip and reached for the knob, opening the bedroom door. She peeked in.

He was shirtless now, and barefoot, but clutching one of the posters of the spool bed, coughing hard. Sara was so startled at his half-nudity that she nearly dropped the tray, but common sense overcame prudishness and she set the soup down on the dresser against the wall. She scooped up his shirt. "Grissom-"

"Nightshirt . . . back of the door-" he sounded both sheepish and miserable. Sara turned to the door and found the long flannel shirt, hanging alongside with a maroon union suit, the sight of which made her grin. She had trouble composing her expression when she turned around, but Grissom was nearly as red as he reached for the proffered nightshirt.

"It gets . . . cold in winter," he mumbled. She decided not to tease him; he looked terrible, and now was not the moment to embarrass him further. Gently she laid the night shirt down next to him and patted his bare shoulder, his skin was hot, but smooth, and for a moment Sara peeked at him, noting the sweet line of his neck, and the strong muscles across his chest and back. It dawned on her that although he might have been from the city originally, farm work had left its mark on him for the better.

It also occurred to her she was staring, and with a blush she turned. "All right, I'll step outside while you get into your shirt, professor. I have medicine for you from Doc Robbins, and some broth to take it with too."

Moving quickly she stepped out, and pulled the door closed behind her. Since she didn't want to go back downstairs, she walked down the hallway and gently opened the second door, peeking in around the corner. It was a spare bedroom, and Sara looked at the collection of extra furniture and assorted trunks here with interest-either Grissom had never completely unpacked, or far more likely, it was merely more convenient to let the stuff sit in storage behind a closed door. The wallpaper here was lovely; big stripes of tawny roses, and Sara suspected it had been a woman's sanctuary; perhaps a sewing room. She closed the door and stepped back into the hall, then moved to the last door and opened it.

She sucked in a little gasp, surprised and pained all at once. It was a nursery. A sheet-draped crib stood against one wall, and a large oak rocking chair sat in another corner, thick with dust. This room was fairly bare aside from the furniture, but the delicate wallpaper of white diamonds on a pale blue background was peeling in places, and the air of desolation hung heavy here. Sara closed it, confused. Had this room been like this when Grissom moved in? Or had he a child who died? She thought back to their many conversations and realized that there was still a great deal she didn't know about her courtly friend at the end of the hall.

Some things would have to come out on their own, Sara decided.

She turned and headed back to the bedroom, trying to make her footsteps loud, but the carpet runner was thick, so she called out, "Are you abed, Grissom?"

"Yes . . . mother," came the weak chide. She grinned and opened the door, glad to see him under the quilt, shoulders propped on the pillows, his gaze still a bit glassy, but his mouth set in a wry grin. Grissom's trousers had been neatly hung by the suspenders on the back of the door, from the same hook the nightshirt had come from and she approved.

Sara came to his bedside and propped one hip on the mattress, then leaned down to brush his hair from his forehead, which was still very hot. He blinked up at her. "You're really here," he murmured.

"Yes, I'm really here. You need to take a dose of Willow Bitters, Dear professor, and then we'll get some chicken broth into you."

Grissom sighed. "All right. Just-no Cod Liver."

Sara quirked a grin at him. "Cod Liver oil?" He nodded, looking mulish.

"I took it every winter for ten looooooong years, Sara, because my mother insisted. When I came west I vowed never again to take another spoonful, so help me Providence."

"No cod liver oil," she agreed, still smiling at him.

Grissom sighed, "Others are ill?"

She nodded. "The town's been hit with measles. Fortunately I had them several years ago, so I offered to come out and check on you. Doc Robbins has his hands full as it is."

"The Ecklies?" Grissom coughed, his expression concerned.

Sara nodded. "Josiah had it but he's on the mend. I'm sure Jonathon has it too, as do half of Mrs. Pearson's tenants and several other people. Nobody's died though, and that's enough news. You need to eat and rest."

Grissom nodded. He struggled to sit up as Sara brought over the tray and rested it across his lap. Carefully she fed him, spooning in the warm broth with care and patience. Midway through she pulled out the bottle of bitters and read the handwritten label aloud. "Two spoonfuls, with water or soup-"

Obediently Grissom downed them, his expression after the first dose making it clear that Willow Bitters were no better than cod liver oil. He took a few more sips of broth to get the taste out of his mouth, but shook his head a few minutes later, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry . . . not hungry . ."

Sara nodded and set the tray aside, then came back. Carefully she pulled up the quilt and smoothed it down, her voice low. "Sleep, Grissom. I'll come check on you in a while. We need your fever to break."

He nodded, a slow and tired gesture and turned his head, giving a low sigh. "Thank you, dear."

Smiling, Sara carried the tray out of the room, feeling a warmth inside that lingered, and a fleeting thought occurred to her: _I like that he needs me._


	12. Chapter 12

It only took a moment to compose the note, but nearly twenty minutes to find a piece of paper; despite a desk full of it, most of the pieces in it looked to be serious or important, and Sara was loathe to send her missive off on the back of a receipt. Eventually she located a spare sheet and quickly wrote a note to Doc Robbins. As she finished, the first pattering of rain came down, and Sara shook her head in frustration. Eventually she located a clean, empty relish bottle and dropped the note in it. a plug of wax sealed it, and Sara carried it out to the barn, where Willie and Zeus were lingering. Bessie was out in the rain, stubbornly chewing her cud and intently ignoring the downpour.

Sara looked at Willie; he was still wearing his bridle, and she carefully took twine and bound the bottle to the band on the side of his face, under his ear. It would be out of his way there, and still visible to Warrick. With a shawl over her head to protect her from the rain, Sara led Willie out to the sloping drive and patted his strong neck a bit, speaking softly to him. "Okay, I'm trusting you to be good and go home, fellah. Go on back to town-"

Willie shook his head, puzzled but compliant, and began to trot off down the road. Sara watched him, pleased to see him take the right direction for Green Meadows. She turned back to the house, feeling cold and wet. Inside the kitchen she lingered near the stove, pleased at the glowing warmth radiating from it. Part of her wanted to go up and check on Grissom, but common sense told her it would be better to let him rest undisturbed for a while. Restlessly she looked around the kitchen and began to check the cupboards, absently re-arranging a few of them for an hour or two. The grey sky didn't allow for much light, so Sara refilled the oil lamps and lit one, then took a moment to have some bread and broth herself.

Grissom had cheese in the pantry, and a few sacks of flour and a barrel of dried apples and another of potatoes. Thinking about the ingredients at hand, she decided on applesauce and mashed potatoes-food easy to digest and more importantly, easy to make.

Once Sara had the apples stewing, she cocked an ear towards the hallway, listening for Grissom. Faintly she heard stirring, and decided to go check on him, making sure she made ample noise in case he was using the chamber pot. When she reached the door all was quiet again, so she knocked lightly and turned the knob, looking carefully around the edge.

Grissom lay in bed, his fingers clutching the quilt, and when he turned his face towards Sara, she noted with alarm that his eyes were glazed again, and that his temples were sweaty. He stared at her, his nose twitching a little. "You are so beautiful."

"Thank you," Sara murmured automatically, alarmed but feeling a little flush of embarrassment too. She moved to him, and laid a hand on his forehead, wincing at the heat that rose up to sear her palm. Grissom murmured again, in a tone of wonder.

"Sometimes I think about you in church. I like the way your dear little gloves sit on your slender fingers, so pretty. Church is when your hands are still, Sara, and I can look at them," he babbled gently. Sara blinked at this, her thoughts pulled from the logistics of getting water up to bathe his forehead. She bent closer and smiled, ruefully at him.

"You look at my hands in church, professor?"

"Only during the sermons," came his mild confession. "It wouldn't be proper during the readings."

This endearing logic escaped Sara, who smothered a laugh. She slid her fingers from his forehead to his cheek, feeling the stubble through the heat of his fever. "You're feverish, sir, and not making much sense. I need to get some water into you and onto you. Stay still, and I'll be back."

"The fireplace mustn't move," he agreed. Frowning, Sara rose from his bedside and hurried down the stairs. When she reached the kitchen she grabbed the medical basket and set it on the table, then took a pewter pitcher out to the pump, and filled it with cold water. She came back in, only slightly damp now that the rain had stopped, and climbed the stairs again, opening the door to the room. the room was in semi-darkness, and she debated going back for the matches, but a low groan from the bed stopped her.

"No more pickles. I cannot eat any more; let Herbert have them," Grissom mumbled. Sara set the pitcher down on the nightstand and pulled one of the bandage bundles from the basket. Fumbling a little she dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out and draped it over Grissom's forehead, half-expecting to hear a hiss as she did so. Instead, Grissom sighed, shifting a little, and Sara spoke softly.

"Lie quietly, dear, and let the coolness do its work," she urged him softly. At the sound of her voice Grissom relaxed. Sara shifted the cloth around, mopping his face a little, feeling the heat still. She redipped and rewrung the cloth and moved it along his grizzled cheeks, pressing it lightly against each burning ear. She hesitated a moment, then let herself cup his face through the cloth, telling herself it was necessary to cool Grissom down.

His cheeks fit nicely in her palms, and she guiltily enjoyed being able to caress the corners of his smile with her thumbs. He sighed, then turned his face towards her. In the faint light she could still see the glitter of his eyes, and the sweep of his long lashes. Grissom shivered and Sara wasn't sure if it was a reaction to the cloth, or her touch. Then he turned his face further and let his lips graze against one of her thumbs.

"Hands promiscuously applied, Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side . . ." came his slow murmur. "Burton . . . very impolite of course-"

"Shhhhhhh-" Sara chided, blushing a bit. She redipped the cloth one more time and swabbed his neck, hesitating at the open collar of his nightshirt. When Grissom closed his eyes and weakly lifted his chin to the ceiling, she gently accepted his trust and lightly dabbed the cooling cloth along his collarbones under the shirt.

She should have been efficient and quick, but somehow her hands refused to hurry, lingering as they shifted the wet cloth against strong muscle and bone. Sara felt herself shiver, her own body reacting in odd ways; when her fingers brushed the rivet of Grissom's right nipple she flinched.

This was dangerous territory; this attraction rooted in the physical. Sara bit her lip and tried to refocus her concentration. Grissom was sick; that was the main issue here.

Softly she spoke to break the quiet. "I had no idea you were such a flirt when you're ill, Professor."

His eyes were still closed, but his smile was beautiful in the dim light. "How I loved our balloon ride. I feel like I am again flying this very moment for the room is verrrrrry far away and small, sweet Sara."

"You're delirious; it will pass," she reassured him, folding the cloth and laying it across his forehead. Grissom nodded, his long lashes against his cheeks.

"Not from the inside. Are the algorithms legible?"

Sara laughed softly. "They are, dear, they are. Lie quietly."

Grissom finally dropped off to sleep, and feeling relieved, Sara relaxed as his breathing evened out. He was still very warm, but he looked peaceful, and that gave her some sense of comfort.

Perplexed, Sara looked around, wondering where she was to sleep. The logical spot would have been downstairs, on the horsehair sofa, but it was so far she worried about not hearing Grissom if he needed her. Still considering the situation, she went down to the kitchen and mashed the apples, adding a little vinegar and a quarter cup of sugar to them, then covered them and set them to cool.

A soft lowing from outside made Sara look up; perplexed she realized that Bessie probably needed milking-

Sara had never milked a cow. She'd seen it done at the fair several times, and had watched the professor do it once before, but observing and actually doing were very different things, she knew.

With trepidation, she picked up one of the scalded tin buckets from the hook near the door and headed out to the barn.

Bessie looked unhappy to see her-inasmuch as a cow could have an expression. However her discomfort outweighed her mood, and she wandered to the middle of the barn, planting herself there and chewing her cud in a slightly annoyed fashion. Sara gently patted the cow's broad flat back and slid her palm down the rounded side.

"Okay. I know I'm not the professor, but you'll just have to put up with me for the moment. Let's see-" she located the milking stool resting by the door and brought it over to Bessie, setting it down. Sara set herself on it and set the bucket under Bessie's udders, trying to remember Grissom's approach.

"Um, Tak, Bessie, Tak-" she murmured. The cow twitched an ear. Sara rubbed her hands together to warm them a bit, then gently groped under the cow.

Swollen. Wincing a little in sympathy, Sara gripped one elongated teat and squeezed lightly; a few drops dribbled out, falling onto the barn floor. She tried again, squeezing harder. A little more this time, but nothing like the foamy jets that Grissom managed to coax from the cow. Sara thought hard.

"A calf drinks by sucking. Suction would be a downward flow aided by the muscles of the calf's throat. I don't have muscles, but I_ do_ have gravity . . . gravity and pull."

Carefully Sara squeezed and let her grip slide down the warm rubbery length of the teat. She was gratified to hear the thick liquid sound of a heavy squirt of milk in the tin bucket. She repeated the gesture, making more milk flow.

Sara grinned.

Nearly half an hour later she had the pail two thirds full and Bessie's udders were notably smaller. Sara felt proud of her accomplishment; undoubtedly, there was more milk to be had, but at least now Bessie was out of pain and possible danger. Sara rose up from the stool and carefully took the bucket out from under the cow, glad to be done with the chore.

She carried the milk down to the cellar and stored it with a cheesecloth hoop lid, fitting it tightly over the bucket mouth, then came back up into the darkness of early evening, feeling slightly exhausted. Sara forced herself to eat a little more even though she wasn't hungry-some fresh cheese and a bowl of the newly made applesauce tasted lovely.

Up the stairs once more. At the top, she looked again to the nursery and made her decision.

Dragging the rocker into Grissom's room wasn't as hard as she thought, and once it was inside she maneuvered it so that she was facing the bed. Grissom himself was still asleep, on his back and snoring lightly; in the lamplight she noted that his fever seemed to have broken, and that the first faint spots were breaking out.

Sara found a clean blanket, tugged it over herself in the rocking chair and fell asleep.

Grissom awoke in the predawn stillness, feeling heavy and weak, but better. The low aches were gone, as was the bizarre parade of images and ideas that had tormented him for the past two days. Now he could trust his senses, and get back to life as it should be. That was the ceiling, these were the walls of his bedroom, and that was his Sara in the rocking chair . . . Grissom blinked.

Maybe his senses were still playing tricks on him.

He shifted to sit up, staring a bit harder but the hallucination didn't fade. If anything the details were concrete and clear in the growing light. Sara, her hair tumbling out of her chignon, her eyes closed as she rested her head along her folded arm. She'd taken her boots off and her stocking feet where resting on the edge of the bed, nearly within touching distance. Long slender feet encased in delicate cotton, the skirt so high that he could see her ankles, and the long curve of her calves . . . oh dear Lord-

Grissom knew that the direction of evil temptation lay right along those lines; he'd been warned of it often enough in his early youth, but at the same time the overwhelming knowledge that this was Sara, and not some drawing in a book made the pulse pound in his head.

Among other places.

He knew he should stop staring; that it was rude and worse than that, overly familiar bordering on insolent, but sleeping Sara presented such a beautiful vision, and Lord only knew when he'd ever get such an opportunity again- Grissom let his gaze follow the line of her legs, and noted that her white stockings were tied at the knees with blue satin ribbon. Further up he noted the creamy skin of her thigh, and shuddered, feeling hot with a fever that willowbark would never cure.

Worse now, she was stirring, shifting herself and making the skirt ride higher, showing off the underlace along with more of her legs. Grissom turned his head quickly but the image was burned into his brain, eyes closed or not; he'd not only seen Sara in a vulnerable moment, but had lusted for her as well.

"Grrrissssom?" came her sleepy voice, and that added another layer of guilt with its warm and intimate tones. He debated on whether to feign sleep or not, but Sara had already shifted her feet off the bed and was moving closer, leaning over him, her face close to his. He turned to look up at her, sure she could read his thoughts.

She smiled. "You look a thousandfold better than you did yesterday. How do you feel?"

Grissom nodded, lost in delight over the very nearness of her. Sara loomed over him, and the long tendrils of her hair were dangling down, nearly brushing him. In a daring move, he reached up and touched her cheek with his knuckles, letting them run along the smooth curve. Sara's eyelids fluttered, but she didn't pull away, and Grissom the spell between himself and her grow a bit stronger.

"Thank you." He wanted to say more, but settled for putting as much as he could into those two words.

Sara looked at him, and the light in her eyes seemed to brighten for a moment; as if she understood the many layers of his meaning. Her dimples deepened, and he let the tip of his index finger touch one lightly, soft as a kiss.

"You're welcome, dear." Then, sitting up, she reached behind her head and fished out a few pins, taking a moment to recoil her hair in quick, efficient gestures. The sight of her doing so quietly thrilled Grissom; it was an intimate one, and full of trust.

Grissom didn't want to break the spell of the moment, he truly didn't, but-

He . . . .

itched.

Moving a hand along his shoulder he started to scratch, but Sara reached down, her fingers circling his wrist. "No!"

"No?" Startled he blinked, and shifted a little under the covers. Now other places were starting to demand his attention, and not all of them were itches. Sara shook her head firmly.

"No, you cannot scratch, Grissom. You'll only irritate your spots further, and possibly infect them too. I _know_ it itches, I do, and I'll make you an oatmeal poultice as quickly as I can, but you must PROMISE me not to scratch."

Her fingers were still around his wrist, and now even THAT was starting to itch. He felt the maddening call from nearly every inch of his skin, from the edge of his hairline down to his ankles, all demanding the soothing rake of his nails. Grissom pursed his mouth.

"Sara . . . be reasonable. I'll go mad if I can't scratch at least a little."

"No. I will bind you to this very bed, sir unless you give me your solemn word not to claw yourself." she intoned, trying to look fierce and only half-succeeding. Grissom nodded very slowly, closing his eyes, guiltily amused at the threat that wasn't much of a threat as much as it was a . . . tease.

"I will make the effort, but no promises," he muttered sorrowfully. "Some instincts aren't nearly as tameable as we would be led to believe, and scratching a persistent itch is one of them."

"Make the effort-" Sara warned him, one corner of her mouth twisting up despite her stern tone. She rose up from the edge of his bed and sighed. "I'll go boil the oats, but that will take a little while. How steady are you?"

Grissom looked at her curiously; Sara motioned with her chin to the door. "Bessie needs milking, and I'm not terribly good at it. Do you think you have the strength to take care of her?"

He nodded. "I'm sure I can do that. I'll . . . take care of my room here as well," he blushed, and Sara understood he was referring to the chamber pot under the bed. She gave a businesslike nod.

"Good then. I should see about breakfast, and maybe some coffee if you have it." She gave him one last stern look and left, feeling a little stiff from her night in the rocking chair, but pleased that Grissom's fever had broken.


	13. Chapter 13

Two hours later Bessie was completely milked and her bounty properly stored away. Sara had been amused to see a shaky Grissom, dressed but with his writing shawl over his shoulders quietly talking to the cow as he milked her, his technique definitely far better than her own. Sara had insisted on carrying the pail herself, ordering Grissom back to bed and chiding him once more for scratching. His dour expression in return was enough to make her chuckle lightly.

Once the oatmeal had boiled and cooled to lukewarm temperature, Sara carried the big porcelain bowl upstairs, debating how best to apply it. Grissom hadn't looked too cooperative, but then again, the entire past day and night had probably unsettled him; for a man used to his privacy, having someone else around must be difficult.

And yet, Sara thought, it felt nice to be needed; to be able to help him precisely because she could. When she reached the landing, she turned, feeling the spoon in her pocket clink against the little bottle of Willow Bark Extract there. She reached Grissom's bedroom door once more and knocked.

"Grissom?"

"Come in-" came his guilty-sounding tone. Sara turned the glass knob, balancing the bowl on one slim hip. As she entered she saw Grissom pulling away from the edge of the rocker and deduced, correctly, that he'd been rubbing his spine against the high spindle back of the chair.

"You're going to have another dose of extract, some oatmeal for breakfast, and then the rest of this is going on all your itchy places," she announced. Grissom arched an eyebrow at her, then looked at the bowl.

"Plain?" he asked, and Sara shot him an exasperated look.

"I'm sorry I didn't have extra hands to carry up the cream and brown sugar-" came her snappish reply. Grissom looked stricken; so much so that she relented even as he stammered an apology.

"No dear, _I'm _sorry-that was thoughtless of me to complain when you've already done so very much on my behalf. Truly, I spoke without thinking-forgive me."

Seeing him standing there in his nightshirt and shawl, his hair still slightly sleep-tousled and his chagrined face dotted here and there with spots, Sara smiled and looked down into the bowl of oatmeal to fight down the wave of tenderness that tickled her stomach.

He was a very sweet man, she decided. Clearly unaware of his own capacity to move her with his very presence.

"You are forgiven . . . this time. I've warned you before, Professor-I'm no fancy cook; even so, my oatmeal is palatable."

"I believe you," he replied, moving to take the heavy bowl from her, "Although I do have a suggestion-a humble one," he added quickly, "-to make this process a little less of a chore."

"Yes?" Sara asked, cocking her head.

"Maybe this would be better applied down in the kitchen."

He had her there; Sara looked at the bed musingly. "Yes, I suppose that it would be better, closer to the pump."

"I have a tub, out on the back porch of the house," Grissom told her, wiggling his shoulders a little, "And although it's not Saturday, a bath would be . . . welcome."

They went back down to the kitchen, and Sara dosed him before setting a few pans to heat water. She doled out a small portion of oatmeal and added both cream and a little honey to it before passing him the mug. Grissom ate slowly, and Sara watched him, aware of how cozy the kitchen was.

The side window looked towards the barn, and the sill had a collection of interesting rocks on it. There were a few hanging clusters of drying herbs-mostly rosemary and peppermint-and a freestanding cabinet of dishes that looked to have come from back East. When he saw her looking at them, he shrugged.

"Not mine-it was left here, along with some of the upstairs furniture when I took ownership of the place."

"Mrs. Watson must have been heartbroken to leave it behind," Sara murmured softly, admiring the Blue Willow pattern on the serving platter propped up in the back of the cabinet. Grissom nodded gently.

"I believe so, and if I could find them, I'd offer to send their things on to them, but all I know is that they left for California."

Sara sighed. "And it's a very big state. Stop scratching under the table."

With a look of offended dignity, Grissom did, but not willingly. Sara pushed the bowl of oatmeal towards him. "You spoke of a tub-I suggest we put water into it not more than a few inches, a mix of hot from the stove and cold from the pump, and you can apply your oatmeal in solitary splendor."

"And this will give me relief?" he questioned cautiously.

Sara nodded wearily. "Soak in the oatbath for about twenty minutes, and you'll feel much better. Sponge off afterwards or you'll stick to your clothing though."

It didn't take long to get set up; Grissom's tub was a back East enamel affair with daisies painted around the black lip, and Sara patiently poured several pans of steaming water into it while he fetched a few buckets of water to add as well. When the temperature was moderately warm, she tested it with a hand and nodded. "There-you won't scald yourself at least. I've left a pan on the stove if you want to warm it up further, and you need a bucket or two for rinsing."

She spoke briskly, trying NOT to think of Grissom here, undressing and getting naked, but it was difficult to keep her thoughts from rebelliously straying that way. She'd already seen him shirtless, and that sweet image was suddenly reinforced as Grissom began unbuttoning.

"Wait until I'm away, professor!" she tried to tease.

He looked abashed, but determined too. "I need one last bit of help, Sara-my back. It's itchy and . . . unreachable. Please, I know it's lacking proper propriety, but if you could just close your eyes and apply oatmeal I'd gladly deed you the house," he teased, trying to make light of his discomfort.

She hesitated, then closed her eyes. _What is it about this man's requests that leaves me unable to deny him?_ Sara took a breath and nodded.

"I'll do it, but not a word to another living soul, Gil Grissom, or so help me-"

"My word as a gentleman and scholar," he replied with sweet seriousness sealed by his gentle smile. He began to undo his cuffs awkwardly, and turned away from her, his nervousness apparent. Sara cleared her throat and turned back to the bowl of oatmeal on the table, giving it a stir. She reached for the pot of water and poured a little in, thinning and warming it at the same time. Over her shoulder Sara spoke.

"Straddle the chair then."

Grissom set his shirt aside and did as she asked, feeling vulnerable. Bare skin wasn't something he was comfortable with unless it was high summer nights, and he was alone in his bedroom upstairs. And even then he had his dressing gown or nightshirt close at hand-it wouldn't do to be caught in Adam's birthday suit while chasing off coyotes or checking on the livestock. He took a breath and sat, resting his forearms on the back of the chair.

Sara paused, just looking at the pale expanse of his back, absently noting the measles dotting the skin here and there, but focusing more on his strong, solid muscles. She'd seen shirtless men before-stevedores on the docks, day laborers hauling furniture or lumber-but this was different. Sara hadn't *known* those others; had only seen them in passing as interesting specimens, nothing more.

But this . . . the innocent trust of Grissom waiting for her healing touch was heady stuff. She looked down into the bowl for a moment, trying to calm her breathing. "I could make a constellation of your spots, you know."

"Ursa Major Itchus," came his cheery grouse, "Please, Sara, I'm about to go mad-"

She scooped up a palmful of tepid oatmeal and stepped closer. Gently, she smeared it across his back, from shoulderblade to shoulderblade, feeling it spread under her fingers with squishy compliance. Grissom held still, looking straight ahead.

"This . . . " she gulped, " . . . is a little messy. And cold, I suspect." Sara stroked the wet lumps out thinly, massaging them around the irritated spots as best she could. Grissom shifted a little and relaxed.

"It's heavenly," he sighed, his voice low and relieved. "I never *knew* oatmeal could yield such a sense of bliss. More, please?"

"Of course," she agreed, and slathered another handful on, letting her fingers knead it against his skin. It was a distinctly sensual action, and Sara felt the heat in her face as she let her touch linger along the strong slopes and curves of Grissom's broad back.

Even smeared in breakfast food he was an appealing figure, so in an effort to calm herself, Sara spoke up, trying to keep her tone from quavering. "You must remember to rinse, otherwise your shirt will be glued to you."

"I shall. More please-" came Grissom's soft request as he hung his head down over the back of the chair. Sara rubbed more oatmeal on him, making it a point to dot the spots, even along the back of his ribcage. When he squirmed, she grinned.

"Ticklish?"

"Apparently, although I'm sure you yourself are the same."

"Very," Sara admitted honestly. "When my mother bought me my first corset and I had to endure the fittings I would break out laughing every time the seamstress tried to measure me. Madame Suzette was _not _amused."

Grissom tried not to laugh, but the mental picture of a coltish little Sara Sidle in a chemise, giggling each time a stern-faced woman came near her was utterly charming. His shoulders shook with the effort of suppressing his amusement.

Sara leaned forward, bringing her lips so close to his ear that she grazed it, whispering, "Stop, or I truly _will _tickle you-"

Grissom let out a helpless little moan; the warmth of her breath against his ear was undeniably arousing, and his mind flooded with scandalous, truly licentious images he knew he had no business indulging in: Sara in her corset, long hair down by candlelight; Kissing her pretty mouth and most shockingly, slipping into bed beside her, pulling the hem of her petticoat up over long pale legs-

"-I yield," he croaked, hunching down as he straddled the chair, trying to force his unruly body into behaving, and desperately squeezing his eyes shut. Under the brush of her cool fingers he shuddered ever so slightly.

Sara pulled back, slightly puzzled. She gently finished coating him and stepped away, reaching for one of the rough little kitchen towels to wipe her hands. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked cautiously. For a moment Grissom said nothing, then flexed his shoulders and looked over one at her, his smile slightly crooked.

"It appears . . . I'm more sensitive than I suspected," he told her, his words taking on an odd tone. Sara arched an eyebrow, but he refused to elaborate. She sighed and moved to put more wood into the stove.

"The kettle will heat up quickly, so keep an eye on it. I'm going to lie down for a short while in the parlor."

Grissom protested. "Oh no-the sofas there are very uncomfortable. Take my bed, please. I need to tend to the milk and write up my notes on the burrowing owl anyway, and the rest will do you good."

She hesitated, and Grissom pressed his case in a softer voice. "I think you know my intentions are honorable, and the least I can offer you is a more peaceful rest than you've had for the past few days, Sara. Please-I'm better, and I promise not to overexert myself while you are napping."

The offer WAS tempting; Sara felt the heaviness of fatigue all in her shoulders, and the idea of just curling up on that beautiful quilt for an hour or two held great appeal. She set the bowl down, came around and nodded as she brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "All right, but if you need anything-ANYTHING, call for me, understand?"

"Succinctly, dear," Grissom murmured playfully. Sara shot him a dry look and was tempted to flick the kitchen towel at the back of his head, but refrained.

"Very well-" she grudgingly agreed, and stepped out of the kitchen.


	14. Chapter 14

The bath _was_ soothing, and Grissom appreciated how the oatmeal took some of the itch and sting out of his spots. He hunched in the tub, scooping the thinned out gruel and smearing it along his limbs and stomach absently as he lost himself in thought. Much demanded his attention: the state of the animals out in the barn; the milk production; the situation in town, and of course, the sweet consideration of Sara in his bed. This latter thought gave rise, literally, and Grissom tried to ignore the hopeful response of his body.

"Tempt me not-" he chided himself in an undertone. Easier said than done, of course, especially when sitting naked in a bath, but Grissom deliberately avoided touching himself as he began to rinse the oatmeal off his body. Fortunately there was enough warm water to do the job, and he certainly felt much better once all of it was gone.

It took a while to dump out the water away from the house and clean up the kitchen but Grissom took his time, determined not to overdo it. He finished up and slowly went out to see Bessie and Zeus, both of whom came over at his cheery whistle. Zeus snuffled him, clearly interested in the scent of oats now on his skin, and to make up for the lack of them, Grissom fed him a smuggled lump of sugar from the bowl in the kitchen.

Grissom made his way back to the house and sat himself down at his writing desk, pulling his observation journal out and writing his notes carefully. Still, it was harder to concentrate, and he felt fatigue seep through him by the end of a mere two pages. According to the parlor clock it was . . . nine. Annoyed, Grissom realized the heirloom had run down and needed rewinding. By his best estimate it was nearly two in the afternoon now.

He heard the sound of hooves and rose up, looking through the parlor windows out towards the long drive that led to the house. A familiar buggy came into sight, and Grissom made his way to the door, feeling both pleasure and annoyance at the thought of a visitor for the moment, inevitable as it might be. He reached the door and opened it as Doc Robbins carefully and slowly climbed out of the buggy, carefully balancing himself between frame and crutch. He looked up at Grissom and gave a nod.

"You look fairly good, for a man covered in spots. Where's Miss Sara?" came the mild question.

Grissom coughed. "She's upstairs lying down. How's the town?"

Patiently Doc Robbins climbed the three steps up to the porch while Grissom watched. He knew better than to offer a helping hand; Robbins preferred to move at his own speed, always, and Grissom respected that. He knew that the Doc had lost a leg at Bull Run-the second battle-and had actually talked his assistant through the amputation.

Men didn't get any tougher than Robbins.

"Recovering, although slowly. Only one death," came the tired reply. "Juana's daughter Maria. Poor babe."

Grissom lowered his head out of respect; the passing of a child was hard on everyone. "I'm sorry."

"As am I. So how are _you_ feeling, Gil?" This question came with a sharp glance, and Grissom colored under it, but held his chin up.

"Better."

Robbins looked at him a moment, then moved past him into the house, his measured gait steady as he did so. "That is what they _all _say. Let's get a better look at you and _I'll _decide if you're better."

Grissom escorted him into the parlor; Robbins gave him the town update while he unpacked the satchel case after setting it on the desk. "The Ecklies are doing fine; Pastor Phillips has been taking turns with Sheriff Brass at keeping watch over the stores. Miz Willow's bartender is on the mend, although he's got a residual cough I want to keep an ear on . . . and Mrs. Pearson sends her warmest regards-"

"-why?" Grissom blurted, in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt. Doc Robbins looked heavenward for help and turned to face him.

"-Because she's set her cap for you, Gil. Open your mouth wide-"

This action wasn't difficult, given that Grissom was already gaping a bit, Robbins noted. He peered into his patient's mouth and nodded sagely. "Still a bit red, so I'd suggest you stay on light fair for the next few days. Have you eaten at all?"

"Oatmeal . . . some broth last night . . . are you _sure_ about Mrs. Pearson?" Grissom asked anxiously. Robbins kept his expression slightly bland, but his eyes held a twinkle to them.

"I'm just a doctor; what would I know of the woman's intentions? Have you been scratching?"

"No-"

"-Yes," came Sara's firm tone. Both men looked to see her in the doorway of the parlor, hastily touching up her chignon and smoothing her skirt. Robbins smiled, tipping his head.

"Afternoon, Miz Sidle. I see you've been taking top notch care of what I suspect is an obstinate patient here."

"He's been cooperative . . . up to the scratching point," Sara demurred, delighted to tease a little. Grissom pursed his mouth, looking a tad rebellious and for a moment his expression was so like that of the Ecklie twins during a scolding that Sara nearly laughed out loud.

There was always a bit of boy in men, she decided.

Robbins nodded, as if unsurprised at her comment. "It's a hard thing, not to scratch. Miz Ecklie practically had to tie Jonathon down to stop him. Fortunately it's a phase of the disease that doesn't last long. My only concern is relapse."

"Relapse?" Grissom asked. "But I feel much better. A little tired, but nothing as bad as the last two days."

Robbins nodded sympathetically. "I know, but for older patients, the chance of the fever returning is almost a certainty. You're being properly cautious in not immediately exerting yourself; nevertheless, I'd appreciate it if Mis Sidle would stay another night and make sure you get more extract should your fever return."

"I'll stay-" Sara agreed quickly. "After all, no sense in leaving if there is a chance the professor might take a turn for the worse."

"But-oh, yes. I agree. Sound medical advice," Grissom nodded. Robbins hid a smirk at the eagerness in his patient's expression and motioned to Grissom's shirt front.

"I'm so glad you support my recommendations. Mind peeling your shirt off so I can see how your chest sounds?"

With a sigh, Grissom finished unbuttoning his shirtfront while Robbins fished for a stethoscope. He noticed Sara still lingering in the doorway, and on an impish impulse waved her closer. "Mis Sidle, tell me . . . are these spots redder or lighter than they were yesterday?"

She was quick though, and gave him a demure look. "It would be hard for me to say."

"They're paler after their oatmeal basting," Grissom replied. "When we're done here, would you be kind enough to take a few gallons of milk into town for me then, Doc?"

"Certainly, certainly. I'm sure both Miz Ecklie and Ms Willows will be happy to take any you have off your hands. Have you had any dizziness, trouble hearing, nausea?"

"No, no and no . . . " came the slightly annoyed response. "Nothing like that."

"Good; means you're not looking at complications then," Doc Robbins replied shortly. He looked over at Sara and gave her a quick nod. "One more night, regular doses of Willow Bark extract, and this old dog should be right as rain."

"Woof," Grissom rolled his eyes as he rebuttoned his shirt. Sara hid her smirk at that, but Robbins merely sighed.

"Trust me, Gil, this could have been much worse, and still might have some sad legacy for you-" he remarked pointedly. This seemed to go over Grissom's head, for he looked puzzled. Sara prudently took her leave, passing from the parlor and out to the hall, pausing there long enough to hear the rest of Doc Robbin's words.

"Sometimes after an intense fever of this sort, a man will find himself unable to father children."

"Oh. Well, given my current situation in life, I'm not sure that's particularly relevant," came Grissom's absent reply. This caused a pang within Sara; a quick pain rising from some unexamined place in her heart, and she bit her lip.

Robbins spoke again, this time more gently. "Given the look in your eye when gazing upon Miss Sidle, perhaps you might reconsider that point of view."

Sara held her breath, focused and quiet, not wanting to miss a word. She'd occasionally considered marriage and children-usually years yet in the future, when the time was right. The sudden quick thought of a baby with Grissom's bright blue eyes-

"I-I think you are making presumptions beyond our friendship, Albert. The young lady is indeed very dear to me, but I find your comment shockingly forward," she heard Grissom growl.

"Oh I meant no offense and you _know_ it, Gil-before you work yourself up into challenging me to a duel, calm down and consider that not only is Miss Sidle a good companion for you, but also that you deserve a chance at the happiness of a more personal sort. You're an intelligent, God-fearing man with all your teeth and a nice little homestead here-and there's more to a life than living it alone."

That last comment sank in for Sara, and she bit her lip, feeling somehow that Doc Robbins had known all along that she was listening. She quietly made her way to the kitchen, not waiting to hear what Grissom responded, trying to cope with the little pang of hesitancy and hope within her.

In the end, Robbins took the fresh milk along with two cured cheeses as payment and thanked Sara for staying; he'd had a private moment with her in the kitchen and reiterated the warning about Grissom attempting too much too soon. "He's stubborn, and being alone out here, tends to run things to suit himself. Generally that's not a bad thing, but it's not always wise or safe," Robbins pointed out with a weary, knowing sigh. "So tonight when he starts feeling warm again, just dose him up and try to keep him from anything TOO foolhardy."

"I'll do my best, although I haven't had to hogtie anything in a long time," Sara replied with a straight face. Robbins eyed her for a moment and grinned, his expression almost merry.

"Gads, I bet you could do it, too-let's hope it doesn't come to that!"

With a wave, Robbins climbed back into his buggy and chirrupped to his stodgy bay mare, urging her back towards the road while Sara and Grissom watched from the front porch. When the doctor was out of sight, Grissom gave a sigh and sagged a little; Sara slipped an arm under his. "Grissom?"

"Tired. I'm fine-" he commented softly, "Just . . . tired."

She wondered if he was trying to be sly, but his smile was strained and Sara felt him lean on her. Clearing her throat she turned with him and pointed him up the stairs, her arm sliding from around him reluctantly. "To bed with you, Gil-no arguing. I'll come check on you in a while, but you need to rest."

"You are exulting in this opportunity to order me about, aren't you?" he grumbled, but lightly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Of course," came her easy agreement. "Getting the upper hand is one of the few joys in life, especially over someone as stubborn as you are, generally."

"I am NOT stubborn; I'm merely strong-willed," Grissom protested. "Although in light of matters, a small rest does hold appeal."

"You ARE stubborn, but graced with a modicum of common sense, occasionally," Sara countered, watching him ascend the stairs.

He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression mulish. She grinned, adding, "Ah-ah. You are the man with a Doctor Thaddeus Hooplemeyer Strato-Wonder Heavenly Ascent Thermal Air Ship and no qualms about flying it-I consider_ that_ the epitome of stubborn."

Grissom grinned and turned back to climbing the stairs.

_(Author's note-there is only one more chapter left written, and after that we will post the summary of what would have happened for the story. Just wanted to warn you readers. Thanks! Cincoflex & VR Trakowski)_


	15. Chapter 15

Sara mashed the potatoes and set them to warm over in the oven, then took her time looking about the downstairs of the house, setting the odd thing right here and there. On a whim, she stepped outside and wandered through the back yard, noting the neglected herb garden, now overrun with mint, and the dilapidated chicken run built in the lee of the back pump. To her eye it looked as if a few afternoons worth of elbow grease could put things right, and Miz Willows would probably be willing to sell a broody hen or two . . . Catching herself, Sara blinked.

Housekeeping. She'd been thinking along the lines of housekeeping; something she'd never seriously considered before. Oh she had a few skills-she could sew in a pinch, and make a few dishes handily enough, and she'd picked up milking now-but running a home-

Running Grissom's home . . . it was there in her thoughts, and the more familiar she was with the house, the easier it was to imagine doing it although she'd never admit THAT to another living soul. But it was a nice house-nicer than many others out in Green Meadows-and with a little work here and there it had a lot of promise.

Briefly Sara thought back to the luxurious townhouse she'd grown up in; the fifteen rooms with morning salon, formal dining room and servant's quarters. Carpets and drapes, quiet voices, afternoons spent calling on friends-all of it torturously dull and stifling. She'd vowed never to learn the art of managing servants or preparing dinner party menus and had lived with that vow for years now. She was a New Woman; an independent spirit and determined to stay so.

Not that Grissom was stifling her though-his support of her writing had always been full-hearted, and his willingness to include her in his expeditions and excursions was a gentle joy.

Sara frowned not exactly sure why there seemed to be a conflict between her mind and her feelings. She was here to help out a dear friend in a time of need, and yet somehow it seemed more involved than that. With an internal oath, she bent down and tugged a few straggling mint plants up, wishing she understood herself and these conflicting feelings a bit better.

By the time the sun had set and the last red rays faded from the hilltops, Grissom was feverish once more. He tried to deny it, but the bright glitter of his eyes told the truth, and he admitted his headache to Sara sadly. She took it in stride, warming up the last of the broth and bringing it to him in one of the horn-handled steins.

Grissom sipped it fretfully, more out of duty than appetite, and Sara held back from chiding him to finish. She took the stein and settled it on the dresser, then pulled the rocking chair closer and studied Grissom as he lay in bed, his eyes closed although he wasn't asleep.

"Shall I tell you a story?" she offered gently, feeling that the distraction might soothe him more than simple conversation. Grissom opened one eye and looked at her with a slightly skeptical air. Sara kept her expression mild, and finally he nodded. "Very well. It's about a little girl, long ago. She was born and grew up in a very genteel neighborhood. There were no loud voices or rough edges. It was very-"

"-quiet?" Grissom ventured. Sara smiled.

"-Dull. The little girl was alone with her governess and tutors most of the time, and took dinner with her mama and papa nightly, reporting what she had learned that day. Being a very . . . high-spirited little girl, this situation changed after a few years."

"She grew wiser?" Grissom asked again, but the amused smile on his face indicated that he knew this was an unlikely answer. Sara shook her head with mock-sadness.

"She grew very good at climbing out of windows, and sneaking out of hidden doors. Out on the streets, this little girl had all sorts of very unlady-like adventures, and learned all sorts of things. How to shoot a slingshot, and how to steal chips off the iceman's cart. How to shimmy up chimneys and climb over garden walls and catch spiders."

"Sounds like a resourceful child. A fit companion for Josiah and Jonathon, in fact," Grissom sighed with a smile.

Sara snorted. "She would have been, I suppose. Much of what she learned hinged on self-reliance, and a determination to figure things out for herself. There were times when some of her choices were foolish, but she learned from those as well. And in the process of growing up, she truly understood the great divide in society."

"The rich, and the poor," Grissom replied thoughtfully. "Those who have means, and those who do not."

Sara nodded, in a slow gesture. "Yes. And the hardest part was when she realized she could never overlook or ignore it, as her parents could."

Grissom sighed. "Mark fourteen, seven-The poor will be with you, always . . . and so this girl took this to heart?"

"She did," Sara agreed heavily. "For a long time. She tried to save those she could by pointing them out, and telling their stories. Sometimes-not as often as she wanted-it made a difference. More often than not, it didn't. But she kept trying, and some days were better than others."

Grissom coughed. "By omission, I suppose some days were worse, as well."

Sara bit her lips. The softness of Grissom's tone; the compassion in his statement slipped under her reserve here in the twilight. She hadn't meant to go down this particular avenue in the story; in fact she had a light tale in mind of a rope jumping game of long ago, but somehow it didn't matter as much as the loneliness welling in her chest. It had been a long time since the fire, but she'd never told a soul, not even Franklin about the nightmares and the sick, helpless fear that still visited her on some nights.

"Some days, yes and one night . . ." she stopped. Grissom was sitting up and looking at her now, and the compassion on his face hit her hard. To her horror she felt her lips tremble, felt her expression crumbling under his quiet, tender gaze. Sara cleared her throat, but it didn't work, and she turned her gaze down to her hands in her lap, desperately struggling for a measure of self-control.

Grissom gently reached over to take her hand; with that one compassionate act Sara felt a surge of grief and strength overtake her. She gulped back a sob and let her fingers cling to her, drawing the support she needed from his soft grip.

After a few long moments, she wiped her eyes and spoke again. "Last year, I was working incognito at one of the factories along the river in St. Louis. There had been reports of dangerous conditions and threats of unionizing, but the owners never allowed anyone to investigate. Franklin didn't want me going in, but I told him I wouldn't stay any longer than it took me to get the facts."

Sara sighed, meeting Grissom's eyes. "Cresote. They tarred lumber there, and the reek was a nightmare. They took men, women, children-anyone limber and strong enough to do the work. The men hoisted the lumber while the women and children painted the preservative onto the wood. The work went on from seven in the morning until after eight at night, with one hour for dinner. I got so exhausted I couldn't sleep, and the fumes killed my appetite."

"My God-" Grissom murmured, aghast. Sara gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"If you think it was bad for me, save your pity for the poor souls who'd been there for much longer. They coughed up blood constantly, and I saw children half-blind from the chemicals. I took notes and looked at everything I could. The more I saw, the more I knew how important it was to tell the truth about the First American Lumber Company."

"First American?" Grissom's expression grew grimmer. "Sara!"

Sara gave a sickly nod. "Yes. I was there when it happened. The management had taken to locking the doors once the wood was delivered because too many workers had been leaving early. I had that in my notes, along with the thousands of other safety issues and dangers. I was at my station near the bucket line when the first wisps of smoke rose up."

Neither of them said anything for a heavy moment, and then Sara squeezed Grissom's fingers so tightly that he bit his lips to hold back his wince. She spoke on, the words coming in a rush. "I smelled it only once it got heavy. The 'sote made it hard to distinguish smells, but people were choking on it, and starting to hurry to the big doors where the lumber was carted in. I-I was worried about some of the women. Some of the ones who'd talked to me, and been my friends. I made my way to the back. The smoke was getting heavy, and people panicked . . . . The screaming . . ." Sara gulped. "I was pushed and knocked around . . . stepped on. And oh God, the smell . . . changed."

Grissom pulled her to him, the gesture gentle but firm; Sara resisted only for a moment, and then slid out of the rocker to sit next to him on the bed, her head resting against his shoulder. Neither of them said anything for a while, sharing comfort together, entwined gently.

Finally, Sara spoke, her words low and muffled against his nightshirt. "The smell . . . I breathed it in while I tried to find a way out. I crawled . . . through the dirt and the 'sote towards the back doors. I couldn't take in what I was smelling, but now I know. I got out-the boards at the bottom of the double doors were loose, and . . . I've never been very wide. Scraped and bruised. People helped me out, and took me away from the fire."

She lifted her head to look at him, and Grissom found himself holding his breath. Sara's eyes were brimming, but the expression in her gaze pierced him to the core of his being; a profoundly sad and beautiful look of melancholy.

The morning of the Fourth dawned bright and clear and breathless, and Sara wondered how Green Meadows was going to get through its celebrations without succumbing to the heat; she was growing more used to the intensity of the West's weather, but the extremes of the desert could still astonish her.

But a breeze turned up mid-morning, flirting with the bunting and flags that every building wore and refreshing the workers who were setting up tables and the makeshift bandstand. Sara watched, taking mental notes for her piece on the holiday; she'd offered to help, but the men had refused with a slightly scandalized air.

Apparently furniture-moving was work only for men.

She didn't protest; there would be plenty to do soon, what with the food to be carried out and, later, Professor Grissom's balloon. With a sufficient weight and long ropes, the airship could be tethered and still fly, and he had been persuaded to offer brief rides to those brave enough to test its lift.

Green Meadows might be small, Sara reflected, and not exactly a wealthy town, but it put on a celebration as proudly and enthusiastically as any big city. She leaned against the bandstand and observed as the tables were surrounded by a variety of chairs, and a series of games set up along the wide main street. Greg and Jacquie labored under Miz Catherine's direction, filling a huge half-barrel with sweet lemonade and another with punch; Greg waved at Sara as he stirred the lemonade with a pole, a canvas apron protecting his finery from sticky splashes.

She waved back and ambled off, taking note of the people pouring in to town. Folks were coming from some fairly outlying ranches, to judge by the dust on their clothes and horses, but smiles were not dimmed and the dust was easily brushed away.

Sara spotted the twins running around with several other children, some of whom dropped off of wagons as soon as they rolled past the first buildings. She remembered their description of the holiday, and wondered amusedly whether they had already filled their pockets with candy.

In addition to the structures, a pit had been dug to roast the corn and potatoes, and an enormous hog was already turning on a spit, but fortunately for Sara's composure the barbecue was some distance from the dining area-presumably to spare the diners from smoke and heat. There would be other meats, she knew-hens roasted whole, wild fowl in pies, plenty of fried fish, and perhaps some thin-sliced beef if someone brought a side. Everyone contributed to the feast in some way; casseroles and stews, cakes and pastries were beginning to line the food tables, brought by eager hands.

She had no creation of her own to offer. Cooking had never been one of her skills. But Mrs. Hodges had explained the traditions, and Sara had purchased several large watermelons earlier in the week from the Indian village up the creek a ways. They now lay chilling in a pool hidden in the twins' private fishing spot, and Sara reminded herself to catch the boys soon and have them cart her contribution to the feast tables so they could be sliced and arranged.

_Music, games, fireworks, food, and Grissom's balloon...I do believe this will be a great day. _Perhaps not the clamor and excitement of parades and speeches she was used to, but the little town's celebration was...friendlier.

At the sight of Mrs. Pearson directing a bevy of ladies to various tasks, Sara decided to see if she could do anything to help. The matron was a little flushed beneath her holiday hat, but was nevertheless unpanicked by whatever long list of tasks she'd assigned herself. She frowned at Sara, her expression thoughtful rather than annoyed.

"What can you do, Miss Sidle? I'm told you don't cook..."

Sara shook her head. "No, but I can do almost anything else-or I can learn." She smiled at the older woman, making it a challenge. "Do try me."

Mrs. Pearson pursed her lips consideringly, then nodded. "Miz Ecklie's Judy was just asking for someone to help with the churning. Go you over there and tell her I sent you."

Feeling absurdly as though she should salute, Sara inclined her head and did as instructed. Miss Judy was in the Ecklies' big kitchen building, looking much more flustered than Mrs. Pearson, but Sara knew by now that the diminutive blonde woman was fluttery by nature.

"Oh, you can do the churning? Wonderful," she said tremulously, smiling up at Sara and making her feel...tall. Despite her airs, however, Miss Judy's hands never ceased their swift neat crimping of pie crust. Her fluttery airs did not extend to her work.

"I can learn to churn," Sara countered, feeling fairly confident with the task. After all, what was churning but stirring cream?

Miss Judy smiled wider. "There's nothing to it-you merely turn the handle. It's all set up in the scullery through there." She pointed with her dainty chin at the narrower room beyond the big main one they stood in.

Sara nodded. As she walked away, Miss Judy's voice followed her. "Open the back door for a cross-breeze if you like. Oh, and don't forget to remove your gloves!"

The scullery was lined on both sides with shelves and drawers for food storage, with a big tub and a pump at the end, and the churn took up half the floor space. It wasn't the dash churn Sara was expecting; instead it was the size and shape of a small barrel, resting on its side in a stand. A handle protruded from one end.

Sara opened the back door wide-the slate floor of the building lent it only a little coolness in the July weather-and with a feeling of mild dismay began unbuttoning her gloves. _How much butter do they __**need**__?_

It made sense, she supposed, if the barrel's contents were to supply the growing number of people out there, but it was still a bit daunting. But the crank handle looked easier than the plunge action of the churn she'd expected, so she unpinned her hat and laid it on one narrow counter with her gloves, and took hold.

An hour later, Sara had come to two conclusions: churning butter was tedious, and she wished she'd brought along a pair of lesser gloves to spoil. Her hands weren't blistered yet, but they were red and tender in spots, even though she'd switched off from time to time. It amused her on some level; for all her work and experience as a journalist, she still had the hands of an idle woman.

But she wasn't about to ruin her good summer pair, nor cry peace. Sara kept turning, listening to the cream slosh and slop, wondering just how long it was supposed to take. She'd already peeked through the hole in the side when she'd paused to shake out her wrists, but the cream had just looked like cream, so she'd replaced the bung and gone grimly on.

Miss Judy hurried in, wiping her hands on the towel she held, and beamed. "This is _such_ a help, Miss Sidle, I can't tell you! One of the Gibson sisters was supposed to come churn for me but I don't know where that girl got to, probably off flirting with the boys..."

Her gentle tide of chatter washed through the scullery as Sara stopped turning the handle. Miss Judy halted the barrel's roll with a touch and pried out the bung, bending to peer inside without stopping her monologue. "The Fourth is always such a holiday here, you know, only Christmas is bigger, and everyone always wants this year's to be better than the year before, if you know what I mean. Oh yes, this is coming along nicely."

She stoppered the barrel and straightened. "You just keep going, and this afternoon you can tell everyone that you made the best butter in town." She patted Sara's arm and whirled back out into the main kitchen.

Sara smiled wryly, and began churning once more.

However, it was only about fifteen minutes before the even swish of the cream turned into a lumpy slosh. The butter was finally starting to come together, Sara realized, and renewed her efforts.

It didn't take much longer for Miss Judy to reappear. She took the crank from Sara's hand and gave it a few turns, to gauge the butter Sara assumed, and nodded decisively.

"My timing is perfect. I'll wash the butter-it's a bit tricky, so just as well I do it this time-and then we'll pack it."

She suited actions to words, and Sara watched with mild fascination as the little woman poured off the buttermilk into a big clay pitcher and began rinsing the butter with water from the pump. At her request, Sara covered the pitcher with cheesecloth and took down a series of stoneware crocks from a high shelf, listening to Miss Judy's burbling.

"Oh, thank you, I would have had to fetch a stool. Normally we'd just put the buttermilk in the springhouse for later, but today we'll take it out to the tables with the butter. It'll stay cool enough in the shade and it won't last long enough to spoil."

She ran on, telling Sara of the delights of Fourths past, all the while moving efficiently around the small space-pouring out the rinse water, propping a long marble slab over the sink, turning out the huge lump of butter onto the slab, and fetching a wide paddle from a drawer. With swift passes she pressed the residual water and buttermilk from the butter, letting it run down grooves in the marble and into the tub. Sara noted with interest that it had a drain with a pipe-surely the most modern of accoutrements in this far West town. "Now if you just hold the crock, this will go so much faster-yes, that's right."

Her delicate little hands were fast and deft, packing the crock Sara held full of the pale gold butter. She ran on about stamps and pats, salting and storing, and Sara thought bemusedly that the woman could be an entire article in herself-or the making of butter could be. The crock lids were put into place and a flat-bottomed basket retrieved from the big room, and Sara found herself being shooed out the door, the basket heavy in one sore hand and the pitcher heavy in the other. She'd barely had time to repin her hat and draw on her gloves.

_(And that's it, folks-on Thursday, VR and I will lay out a summary of what would have happened to all the characters. Thank you so much for reading this even though it's an unfinished work. We loved doing it, and __**you**__ readers for supporting us through it this far. CSI is one of the best fandoms we've ever__ been in!)_


	16. Chapter 16

We had plans for the characters, and so below are some of the plot points that they would have encountered in the rest of _Green Meadows_. When VR and I first created this, we HAD hoped to finish it and publish the whole thing as a complete story, but time, other plot bunnies and real-life factors got in the way. It was only now that we agreed that what we HAD done could be posted, and it was not our intention to frustrate any readers, but to share a project that had been dear to us who loved CSI.

Onward-

**The Hodges**—Mia did not have the measles. As some probably figured out, she was pregnant. And David would have been torn between great pride and hovering attentiveness to her all through her nine months. Luckily, it was to have been an easy pregnancy, and they would have had a lovely baby girl, naming her Hannah, after David's late mother. Hannah would be duly admired and doted on by many of the townsfolk, including the shy but sweet Brandauer bachelors, who would carve several small toys for her from sheepbone. Catharine was made her godmother and the christening was heavily attended.

Over the course of the years, David and Mia would have two other children, Samuel and Elizabeth, and the Emporium would prosper under the busy and cheerful bustle of the Hodges family.

**The Ecklies**— Conrad Ecklie did well as the town banker, and negotiated with both the railroad and the land agencies to have Green Meadows expanded as a layover stop to California. He and his wife Becky pushed to have a town square established, along with a school and a library. Becky Ecklie taught for several years and educated not only her boys, but also several of the town children as well, and retired only when young Lindsey Willows came to take her place.

The boys grew up. **Jonathon**, always the more studious, began to follow Doc Robbins around, and finally confessed to the desire to become a physician himself. Robbins took the boy under his wing and taught him the fundamentals of anatomy and basic biology. From Grissom, Jonathon learned chemistry and mathematics and field studies—by the time Jonathon was eighteen, he was accepted at several prestigious medical schools back East. He left Green Meadows and got his degree and license, returning each year for the Christmas holidays. After graduation, Doctor Ecklie returned, intending to say goodbye to his family since he was headed for California, but ended up staying on when he discovered that Robbins had retired, leaving Green Meadows with no full-time physician.

**Josiah** went to work as an apprentice for Warrick, and grew into a wiry, cheerful blacksmith, skilled with horses and a respected judge of animals. When Lindsey Willows came to visit her mother, he was smitten by the slender blonde, and courted her shyly until she agreed to become his wife. They bought farm a far north of the town, and raised wheat and tow-headed children.

**Pastor David** bought a new organ for the church; a complicated affair that required both he and **Miss Judy** study the manual and practice the hymns. The close and sweet lessons allowed their mutual affection to blossom, and when Miss Judy accepted his proposal and gave notice to the Ecklies, everyone was delighted.

Miss Judy took in strays, and anyone looking for a kitten or puppy or a home for a kitten or puppy knew to seek her out. She provided excellent mousers for the Emporium, the Willow Branch Saloon, and the train depot.

**Mrs. Pearson** was swept off her feet by** O'Shay** the freightman. They first met up at the Fourth of July picnic, and he began to stop in for supper whenever the train was in town. By September he was doing odd jobs and working as a handyman around the boarding house, and over Christmas they married. Both of them were loud and bossy, but underneath the bluster was a deep affection that was impossible to miss. Together they turned the boarding house into the first official hotel of Green Meadows, and had a special rate for freightmen and railroad workers.

**Doc Robbins **took care of Green Meadows for several years, and spent part of his time tutoring Jonathon Ecklie. He found himself named in Sam Braun's will along with Catherine Willows, and ended up with a nice tract of land upstream from Green Meadows. It didn't take much to convince Jacquie to marry him. They built a nice home there, and helped fund Becky Ecklie's civic projects; the bandshell was dedicated to them. When Jonathon Ecklie became town doctor, Robbins gave him a new buggy, and was there also for the laying of the cornerstone to the Green Meadows hospital at the turn of the century.

**Ronnie Litre **ran the depot for several years, and was given several commendations by the railroad for his courtesy and efficiency. He died of apoplexy one winter, manning the station in brutally freezing weather, and was mourned by all. His is one of the handsomest stones in the cemetery, carved with trains and sheaves of wheat. His successor, **Bobby Driscoll**, came in from Georgia and was gradually welcomed and accepted by the town.

**Warrick Brown** As the town grew, so did its livery stable. Warrick, appreciating the freedom that the West offered, made the most of his opportunities, and chose his horses and his help carefully. When a little cautious flirting led to no more than a few disapproving glances, he decided to pursue more than just worldly wealth, and took up courting Miz Catherine in earnest, with a discretion and persistence that had observers laying quiet bets as to when-not if-he would succeed. When he did, the few dissenting voices were drowned out by the approving ones, and he wore an air of satisfaction that few could match. He took Josiah Ecklie on as an apprentice as well, and eventually made him a partner in the business

**Gregory Chalmington-Sanders **The rescue of a damsel in distress, a young Norwegian lady held in durance vile by the villainous rancher Sam Braun, spurred young Sanders to shake off his melancholy and leave off his drift through life. He took up enterprise and chicken farming, and soon made enough money to partner with Miz Catherine and allow her to extend her saloon. When he was wealthy-modestly-and wed-to _his_ damsel, NOT the society belle chosen for him by his parents-he resumed communication with his parents, though reconciliation with his father remained out of reach. His mother, however, was completely won over by the news of grandchildren.

**Nick Stokes **found that although Green Meadows was a good town, it was difficult to resist the call of home, and after a few years left to return to Texas, where he became a Ranger, and had a long and distinguished career, eventually becoming sheriff of his hometown there.

**Miz Catherine **with the addition of capital from Greg's investment along with money from Sam Braun's will, the Willow Branch grew beyond the capabilities of its current staff, so Miz Catherine hired more help, and found the balance of power in Green Meadows shifting in her favor as she brought in more custom and trade. Her daughter Lindsey who had been away at boarding school came to visit and stayed, making Catherine see that settling there seemed less of a threadbare choice and more of a wise decision. Feeling past regrets slip away, Catherine decided to make the most of what she had-and what better way to do so than with a man of wise judgment, even temper, and shrewd business sense? Not to mention a certain rugged handsomeness.

**Sheriff James Brass** was re-elected every year like clockwork, and with that continuity was able to keep the machinery of the law running fairly smoothly in Green Meadows. As time wore on, Sheriff Brass bowed to the necessity of delegation, but he was still seen as the Law in Green Meadows and for a good distance around it-fair, harsh when necessary, yet often merciful when it was merited. However, eventually the winters grew too severe for him, and he laid down his badge and moved away to the warmer coast-where, some say, lived the mysterious woman with whom he had been exchanging letters for years…

And finally-

**Gil Grissom** and **Sara Sidle** The two of them continued to visit and keep company. At the Fourth of July picnic, they gave balloon rides together to the delight of the town. Later, in October at the annual Spelling Bee, they went toe to toe in competition, zipping through the hardest words in the dictionary until Grissom tripped up on 'appoggiatura' and Sara spelled it correctly.

Later, he discovered that Sara was the author of the Serenity Thorncroft series and marveled at her creative abilities, helping her craft the next book, Serenity and the Thermal Airship of Doom. The book did well, and Sara autographed his copy when it came in from the publisher. Although Franklin wanted her to come back to St. Louis for the first printing she declined.

The lightning rod on the barn proved to be a Godsend when it was struck during a winter storm. Grissom was able to charge a few Leyden jars, and Sara was able to witness it, writing up an amusing piece for the paper about it after she helped put his hair out.

It was at the Christmas Dance—held at the Willow Branch—that the two of them found themselves under the mistletoe and finally shared a sweet kiss, thinking themselves unseen. In truth, most of the doorways had been wreathed in the stuff, and the responsible parties (Becky Ecklie, Martha Pearson, Lizzie Scott and Mia Hodges) were will satisfied that matters were proceeding nicely.

Grissom gave Sara a beautifully monogrammed brush comb and mirror in silver and tortoiseshell; she gave him a microscope from Zurich, and a new shawl that she'd embroidered herself.

By New Years, as Pastor David rang the bells heralding in 1871, Grissom and Sara shared a glass of port wine at one of the tables in the Willow Branch, and mused on how springtime was a good time for new beginnings. Sara planned to send for her furniture, and Grissom considered re-breeding Bessie, clearing out the chicken run, and buying a pair of rings.

So yes, there would have been a spring wedding and a sweet start to a long, solid and loving relationship. Sara would have written many more books—not just the Serenity Thorncroft novels—and Grissom would have become the leading authority on flora and fauna of the southwest.

And who knows? Maybe that nursery upstairs would have been used after all.

The end


End file.
